Mikka was seated in an alcove under the eaves of one of Tremallan’s tallest towers, where the statue of the corsair captain who ordered it built had once stood. Virtually no one had ever seen the statue, but that hadn’t been the point – the captain wanted to survey, at least in spirit, the world he had clambered to the top of through brutality and guile.
His descendants had quickly fallen into debt until all their assets, this tower included, had been seized by House Citrine, who promptly took down the statue as a symbolic act of dominance. With no central figure at their head, and penny-pinchers all, they had never replaced it. And so the space stood empty but for Mikka and the rest of the city’s roving gulls.
Such stone towers truly told the tale of Tremallan. In the affluent, sea-level districts, retired privateers would seal their triumph by purchasing whatever narrow plot was available – some modest two-storey family dwelling or butcher’s shop – and building as far upwards as they could. From that height, they would spend their final years taking in the sight of their ships coming into port, and knowing their tower was the first thing those ships would see on the horizon. Meanwhile, in the sunken districts, the poorest of the city’s denizens would build their ramshackle steeples storey by storey, generation by generation. Many of these exceeded the merchant lords’ follies in height, and all of them were far more interesting and creative constructs besides – structural marvels of stone-broke ingenuity. And yet, these sunken spires were entirely invisible to the town’s well-to-do, their roofs barely topping the squat city walls.
Mikka sat a long while further in that alcove. He knew that, from the moment he stood up, he would barely have another moment to pause for thought. It would be one breathless battle after the next. And so, he would just have to do all his thinking now.
He reckoned all the pieces were finally in play. The scarf-swaddled strongman. The creepy old man who smelled like a graveyard. And the staff-in-the-mud old monk. With the arrival of these three hired hands – well, technically, eight hired hands… potentially ten? – everyone who had any realistic designs on the Idol had placed their pawns on the board.
There was little Itronne Varta taking point, scrambling House Celadon’s power around town like a schoolyard bully. Looming behind her were the wispy figures of the Senior Masters of the Sunset Sect, hidden away in their mountain mists. Their envoy clearly pulled the strings at Celadon. And their delightful little stray cat mewled despondently on the shore. Beyond that, Mikka had no idea what resources they had deployed, what their plans were, or even what they really wanted. But he knew they were divided, and that they would be slow to act. That meant that, for the moment, they were not his problem. And surely nothing could go too wrong if he ended up playing a little bit with the stray kitten. He couldn’t risk taking all of this too seriously, after all. That would mean losing the momentum is the worst possible way.
Valdoc was still an unknown quantity. He was the most clever and resourceful of the Bertaèyn nobility. His network of influence spread even into the world of serious practitioners. And he was well known to have designs on Tremallan. Still. Given his current reach, he’d only be able to brush the Idol with his fingertips. More importantly, what could he possibly have to offer a practitioner on Mikka’s level? No threat from that way either, then. Much more Laostic’s problem.
As for the Governor, he was a step behind all the other players. Late to the game and wearing entirely the wrong kind of footwear. And anyway: remaining neutral among the factional squabbles – pretending not to notice while everyone he didn’t have the power to control beat each other up around his city – was Laostic’s whole job description. So there wasn’t much to worry about from that direction.
Mikka liked the look of Loic, though. Disappointingly, it didn’t look like any of the other combatants knew which end to hold a straight blade with. So the hero of the Siege of Orkway would be his best chance for a good old-fashioned swashbuckling roof-hopping swordfight. He’d have to make the most of it. And make sure not to accidentally lop off Loic’s hands.
Oh. Right. They’d brought in that sailor, hadn’t they? What was her name? Vall? Vall. …hmm. He shrugged. No matter how charitably he looked upon her, Mikka just couldn’t see how someone completely untrained would make any difference in the days to come.
The matter with the son was honestly astonishing, though. Mikka had spent some time examining the Idol last night, before heading to the alternate hideout. And he’d confirmed that it had been the ailing runt who had sparked off the artefact – and that they were both lying dormant at the moment, dead as coffin lacquer to the world. He didn’t know what connection the boy had to the Sunset Sect, nor did he have a good way to find out. All he had to do was keep the Idol safely within Tremallan’s walls and away from Laostic’s Prison Isle. Just in case physical proximity would trigger a full opening. He wasn’t ready for that yet.
And… that was it, really. Trading House Agate was more interested in picking strips off Orkway’s skeleton. Citrine had no idea what was afoot, and couldn’t aspire to be more than Valdoc’s feet-on-the-ground if they did. All the wizards, warlocks, and witches growing mushrooms between their toes in the groves and coves of this rain-swept little island had always done a good job of ignoring both Tremallan politics and the Sunset Sect’s entire existence, and that was unlikely to suddenly change now. As for any forces off the island, the truly powerful among them would know that there was nothing here they could make use of. And anyone beneath that would only make it to the table after all the dishes had been cleared and the mice had made away with most of the crumbs.
That left the three stooges who walked in this morning. It had been simple to catch them. Anyone trying to duck under the wall’s wards was painfully visible to anyone who knew what to look for. And Mikka had long since staked out the best places to scan the city from a distance – none was better than that western hill.
Mikka couldn’t get a clear picture of the extent or nature of their abilities without the risk of drawing their attention, which he did not want to do just yet. But sensed that he could take them, if it was one-on-one. More importantly, he didn’t know who they worked for. Of course, if any of them was truly operating alone, then they shouldn’t pose a threat at all. The only thing that had made him uncomfortable was how the stinky old man had managed to slip his gaze so soon after entering town. That niggled at Mikka. But he’d have to drop it for now.
He had spent a year preparing for this. There were months scouting the area with humility and open eyes – lying so low as to meld into the rocks and sand, truly getting intimate with the lay of the land and its hidden laws. Then more months laying his web, spreading gossamer strands of his awareness and befriending the informants who most counted – the ghosts, the shades, and especially, any piskies that remained around. Granted the gift of having next to no agenda, he had given himself to Tremallan – and now the city was his, even more than it was Laostic’s. He knew almost for a certainty that he had the high ground on everyone else. He could walk forward confidently, without glancing over his shoulder.
His blade, sheathed for a year but for a few training swings, was thrumming with the urge to dance. He was strong. Stronger than he’d ever been before. And so, he would strike first. To thin the crowds a little bit; to narrow down the playing field. If the floodgates opened and everyone descended on the Idol at once, he had to admit that he would never be able to defend it. So he had until then to take out as many of them as he could. It would be a tricky tightrope to walk. But he was increasingly overcome with the sense that, so long as he maintained the momentum, he could surely do it. He rolled his shoulders. Best get on with it, then.
With his mind settled, he looked off into the distance, towards the Continent and seemingly at nothing in particular. He seemed to be inviting his future self to look back at this moment in memory. But this silent pause did not last long. Taking his sword in hand, he dropped off the ledge of the alcove. A moment later, the swordsman Mikka strode out of Tremallan through the Western Gate.
Oneface spent the night flat on his front in an observation station seven streets away from the hideout. He was covered with a tarp and wrapped up in blankets, so for all that he might grumble, he had actually been quite cosy. As the suggestion of a dull grey dawn loomed around him, he watched through a wonky but powerful spyglass as a troop of heavily armed shock troops tried to make their way into the hideout.
He giggled as they sent a scout out through the straedoù window, who carefully picked a path up the outer wall until one of the false bricks fell. They plummeted downwards, swinging like a sack of potatoes at the end of a rope held fast by their huffing, sweating comrades.
He hummed approval as they twirled their grappling hooks and sent them questing upwards, gasping with relish as one finally caught on the ledge at the edge of the roof, and tittering away as it slipped on the oil he had coated all along the roof’s perimeter, sending the poor scout swinging wildly across the alleyway, her comrades straining against the window sill for purchase.
He strained to hear the distant thumping as they tried to knock a hole through the hideout floor. He just caught a glimpse of the scout mounting on her comrades’ shoulders to climb up it when they succeeded, and counted a dozen figures shimmying up the rope she dropped behind her.
The minutes trickled by. His paralysed face did not, of course, shift an inch from its one, drooping expression. His feet tapped faster. His keening whine grew almost audible. And though he still lay flat on his front, he wriggled so excitedly that was virtually hopping up and down.
Finally, when he could almost contain himself no longer, the first trap went off with a light but echoing pop he could hear even from this distance. The first set off the second, then the third, until eventually the whole chain followed, like kernels on a red-hot skillet. A great plume of green and purple smoke shot out from the cracks between the planks of wood of the hut on the straedoù roof and came billowing out all the windows of the abandoned upper floors.
“Heehee…hehehe…HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE…!”
“Is that the gummy powder you keep talking about?”
Oneface was so startled by the voice coming from just beside his head that he nearly leapt off the roof of the building. The only thing stopping him was the tarp he had lashed tightly over him. A minute later, after he had just about untangled himself, he turned to see Winky squatting low, her cheeks propped on her little fists, staring at the slowly settling coloured smoke.
“Mistress said you’d be here,” she explained in place of an apology.
“Yes,” he grumbled, pulling his legs out. “It is the gummy powder. And some tremble-juice as well. None of them will be able to walk straight for a week!”
Winky sensed, from the way he was puffing out his chest, that he was going to keep talking, so she cut him short by holding a small black, drawstring bag of fine, smooth cloth out towards him.
“Mistress says you have to carry this around with you. Don’t let go of it even when you’re sleeping. Of course, if you’re about to get caught and it looks like they might kill you, then you can go ahead and…” she trailed off and fixed him with an appraising glare. He felt like she was wondering whether to keep a fish from yesterday’s catch or toss it to the crabs. “On second thought, just don’t let go of it ever.”
“Isn’t that the same as saying I should just die?” he began, before being stopped short by the sudden and vertiginous sensation that he would never see her again. Her expression of distaste grew puzzled.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“No… reason.” In fairness, it was true. “Did she say anything else?”
“To meet her at Hideout 6.”
“What about you?”
“Why?”
“I just… no reason.”
Her look said she really didn’t know what to make of him. He found it very awkward.
“…Mikka’s sending me out of town for the day. Tentpole thinks that’ll be safest for me.”
Oneface nodded and started to undo his lookout station. Half a minute later, he said, “Here,” and handed Winky two metallic lozenges.
“Tremble-juice,” he explained. “It’s easier to use without getting any on you than gummy powder. Throw it hard on a hard surface. Make sure you’re fifteen feet away and have your nose and mouth covered.” He scratched his cheek. “Just in case,” he finished lamely.
Winky gave him the same blank look as before. Then she nodded and placed them in the same pocket where she had the other five Mistress had given her.
Mikka lingered for a minute under the swinging arms of the windmill on the Western hill, but not a second longer. Knowing any more about his opponent than precisely what he needed would, at this point, only weigh him down and slow his blade.
He walked steadily westwards, never leaping ahead unless he was able to draw an in-breath without adding any tension to his wrists. And so it was late afternoon by the time he reached Tolsta Head – a craggy mound which jutted out from the coast, a hundred feet above the waves. He planted himself at the cliff’s edge, leaning into the powerful wind. Below, great stones towered up from the sea, drawing the waves froth-white between them.
He pulled a knife out from his tight-strapped brigandine and, holding its sharp point between two fingertips, flicked it out to sea. It flew with whistling, wind-shredding speed past the great standing sea stones before a sudden gust seemed to catch it and send it flickering back between them. As it neared the rock-face of the Head, it suddenly glinted back to life and screeched in a straight line towards the mouth of a cliffside alcove, in which the monk sat cross legged beneath his white veil and wide-brimmed hat.
Just before it punctured his blindfold, the knife blade froze, suspended in mid-air without even a quiver. Frost spread up from its tip. The monk tilted his head fractionally upward. Straight above him, Mikka’s dulled expression finally twisted into a smirk.
He had only put the barest trace of the weight of his will behind the knife – only just enough to pull it back to land once it had reached open waters. And he had retracted even that by the time it entered the monk’s alcove. As a result, he suffered no wound when it was ripped from his control.
In truth, the throwing knife had not been a sword thrust. It had not even been a probing feint. It was, in fact, a letter. A letter of introduction – and a letter of invitation.
Mikka leapt from the edge of Tolsta Head, landing lightly on the stony westward beach. A pewter staff descended instant and implacable from the heavens, pulverising the rocks on which Mikka had stood a mere moment before, copper rings clinking gently at its head.
Gurlaz – Captain of the Celadon Guard Corps – scowled deeply. It was a fearsome sight on that reptilian face – usually enough to stiffen up the spines of their subordinates and set them standing to immediate attention. On this particular occasion, however, it was not at all having that effect.
“What on earth has happened here?” they hissed.
Their Sunset Sect contact had identified the epicentre of the aetheric disturbance, and the crack squad sent to investigate it was now flopping around the upper flights of the straed stairway like the most far-gone of drunkards. The squad leader – a veteran of a hundred sea skirmishes – looked like she was trying to explain. She just about managed to slobber. Gurlaz growled in disgust.
“Captain!” One of the guards who had accompanied Gurlaz in investigating the distress signal spoke up. She was kneeling over one weakly flailing comrade and pulling his eyelids down to examine him. “They appear to have been drugged…”
“Obviousssssly!” Gurlaz roared. “But how could the whole sssquad have been… graahhh! Round up any witnesssssess!”
Within minutes, everyone who remained within the building and its immediate surroundings had been dragged into an empty room – mostly the older and more infirm beggars, who had been huddling under their threadbare blankets, waiting for the trouble to blow over. As the interrogation got underway, the guards kept dragging in any unfortunate passerby.
“Who occupies the top floors of this building? Answer me!” Gurlaz rasped.
“I don’ know! We’se just try an’ ignore the noises!” piped up one sorry-looking specimen.
“It’s a girl! Brown-haired! Mousy! Wears a dirty sheet!” chimed in another.
“Oh shut up. You just got here last week! No, the girl is well known around these parts. They call her Butcher. Healthy c’plexion for a street dweller. Long blonde hair-”
“Naw, it’s pink now it is!”
“Ya fools! She don’ live here! Just deals with ‘em that do.” Gurlaz turned to the beggar who now spoke with some air of authority and a conspiratorial wheeze. “There’s a gang’a thieves up there, for sure. Somes say they’se number ten, others a hunnerd! They’se send their youngest to spy on us occasionally – tall, lanky lad – but their real numbers ares as ghosts! You’se only see ‘ems shadows as they’se swing along the old clotheslines around–”
“There’s only a handful of them. Two boys and one girl, at the core. They go by Tentpole, Oneface, and Mistress. Butcher works with them, on and off. There are already some small bounties out for them, but it’s enough trouble that no one ever bothers to collect.”
An unassuming man in faded workman’s clothes stood beside a Celadon guard at the entrance of the room.
“They’ve got the backing of some bigwig in House Agate, contacts in the City Guard, and likely more besides. Specialise in stealthy break-ins and rare metals. There’s someone pulling their strings. Someone with magecraft, most likely. But no one’s got any lead on that.”
Gurlaz flicked a scaled wrist and the guards cleared the room of all the beggars. They nodded at the man to continue. He pulled out the sachet of stimulant herbs he’d been nursing in the gap left by a missing molar, plucked it off his tongue, and replaced it with a fresh sachet.
“I’ve fenced for them more than once. I can provide detailed physical descriptions, rough sketches, information on the streets they tend to work as pickpockets, and an informed guess as to the location of their other hideouts and safehouses.”
Gurlaz nodded again. A subordinate fiddled through a supply sack and promptly presented the informant with a few clinking, gold Gros au Lion coins.
On the other side of the wall, Loic hung by one hand, fingertips pressed into the narrow gap between two poorly mortared stones. The nearest ledge wide enough to stand on was fifty feet below. His downward gaze was unfocused, his face impassive.
David Leon 