In the Shadow of Lightning

17

The High Vorcien Club, on the edge of the Family District, was a sprawling single-story building covering two whole city blocks with gambling, dazeglass, whores, food, cigars, private cudgeling matches, and more; all without the stain of lower-class revelry at Glory Street. It was the premier place to be for the elite of the elite within Ossan society.

It was also owned by Kizzie’s oldest half brother, Sibrial.

Kizzie slipped through the back entrance, dodging porters as they carried in crates of expensive wine and nodding to the madams smoking cigarettes outside the delivery bays. There were a handful of enforcers hanging around, rolling dice on the floor or reading books in forgotten corners. A few raised their eyebrows at her, but no one stopped her as she made her way through the labyrinth of kitchens and service passages and up to the raised gallery behind a massive one-way mirror that overlooked the main floor of the club.

She clung to the wall, allowing waiters to come and go without interruption, watching the chaotic dance that kept the club running. Standing by the mirror, snapping orders like a general on a battlefield, was a statuesque, dark-skinned woman in her late fifties wearing a translucent black tunic cut to be a more professional version of the club uniform.

Veterixi Jorn, the concierge, had been with the family since well before Kizzie was born – a High Vorcien Club porter back before Father Vorcien had passed it on to Sibrial. She was the ultimate authority in this place, almost akin to a guild-family majordomo in her own right. She could be trusted with pretty much anything, and refused to play at family politics, including the spat between Kizzie and Sibrial.

“You know that your brother will kill you if he sees you here,” Veterixi said suddenly, filling a brief lull in the constant stream of reports. She did not look away from her view of the club.

“It’s still the family club,” Kizzie said, holding up her hand to show the silic sigil, “and I still have a few privileges.”

“Oh yeah? Sibrial’s playing cards at his usual table,” Veterixi shot back. “You want to go join him?”

“I’m brash, not stupid,” Kizzie snorted. “I just came to ask a favor.”

Veterixi held up one hand as a young man – one of the scantily clad servers – rushed into the gallery weeping. She touched him gently on the shoulder, conducting a quick exchange that was too quiet for Kizzie to hear, and then sent him on his way. “Get rid of Needor Plagni,” she ordered one of the porters standing at attention. “And ban her from the club for a full month. I don’t give a shit if she is a glassdancer, if she lays a hand on another one of my employees against their will, she will be banned permanently.”

Kizzie coughed in her hand once the porter had gone. “I heard one of the Plagni’s glassworks was vandalized last night. Hundreds of thousands of ozzo’s worth of godglass smashed and the guards blaming it on everything from foreign nationals to giant birds. I bet they’re on edge.”

“And I,” Veterixi said, “heard that you’ve been relegated to hotel security for Demir Grappo.” Veterixi’s tone made it clear what she thought of that. A step down, even after falling out of favor.

“It’s a very nice hotel and I’m not going to have to launder blood out of my tunics for a while.”

“Breenen is a colleague,” Veterixi admitted, “and I admire him. I hope the hotel doesn’t go to shit now that Demir is back.” She sighed, ordering one of the porters to send a bottle of wine to the table of Marnish merchants who were losing a lot of money. “What favors do you need of me, Kissandra?”

Kizzie resisted the urge to defend Demir and stepped up to the one-way mirror to search the club. She spotted Sibrial immediately – wide shoulders, light skin, and long blond hair that favored his mother. He was thick without being fat, big-boned and broad-shouldered, laughing like a braying donkey at something one of his mistresses said. Just the sight of him turned Kizzie’s stomach. At a nearby table was Capric, his eyes closed, a piece of dazeglass in his ear, snoozing while conversation continued around him. There were nine full-blood Vorcien children, and it wasn’t uncommon to find most of them here on any given night. Sibrial and Capric were the only two she could spot.

But they weren’t her target. Kizzie moved on, searching the crowd until her eyes landed on the prize. Glissandi Magna was middle-aged with short hair, wearing a fine, dark blue tunic, lounging in a booth not far from the mirror. She smoked a thick cigar while she watched one of her cousins – third in line among the Magna heirs – play cards with several other guild-family scions.

“I want to know about Glissandi Magna.”

Veterixi snapped her fingers, and the remaining few porters standing at attention in the gallery vacated the area. Within moments they were alone, interrupted only by the muted sounds of the club from the other side of the mirror. “Now why would you want to know about Glissandi Magna?”

“She’s messing with some of Demir’s hotel suppliers. Demir has asked me to look into it.” One of the benefits of having a reputation for personal integrity was that most people assumed she never lied. It was a stupid assumption, of course, doubly so because it was held by otherwise intelligent people. Kizzie’s personal code was quite specific: she always kept her word, and she rarely lied to public authorities. White lies that were unlikely to be verified were a common part of her enforcer’s toolbox.

Veterixi took her gaze away from the club to glance sidelong at Kizzie. Kizzie pretended not to notice. Finally, Veterixi said, “She’s a firebrand. Opinionated, intelligent, ruthless. If she’s made a decision there’s no swaying her. If I were you, I’d go back to Demir and tell him to find new suppliers.”

“You think a Grappo glassdancer is intimidated by a Magna cousin?”

Veterixi shrugged. “I don’t really know what intimidates Demir. No one knows a damned thing about him, other than the fact he broke at Holikan. Even so, Glissandi is not one to cross.”

“The suppliers are clients,” Kizzie lied.

“Ah. Certainly makes it more complicated.”

“I’d like to talk to her alone.”

“Can’t help you with that,” Veterixi said. “She’s got a couple of hulking Purnian bodyguards that go everywhere with her. Outside of this club or her own home, you won’t have the chance to chat in private.”

“You think she’d take an appointment?” Kizzie asked. It wasn’t really an option anyway – Kizzie didn’t want any record that the two of them had ever spoken – but she might as well ask.

“Maybe if you’re willing to wait six months. More likely, she’ll have her bodyguards beat you within an inch of your life just for the audacity of asking.”

Kizzie watched Glissandi smoke her cigar, trying to get inside that head of hers. “Any vices? Peace offerings that might put me in her good graces?” A sordid vice made for either bribery or blackmail material.

“Nothing,” Veterixi said with a sympathetic frown. “She loves money and herself. She’s not scared of anyone, even glassdancers, and Demir isn’t rich enough to bribe her.”

It seemed, at least on the surface, that Glissandi was impenetrable. Kizzie went through her list of options. Demir wanted this done in a timely manner, and digging around Glissandi’s businesses, family, and friends for something Kizzie could use would take time. It would also be dangerous. If the Magna found out what Kizzie was up to, she could expect a visit from more than just a pair of Purnian bodyguards.

An idea occurred to her. Perhaps, she considered, it didn’t have to be that difficult. “How’s her reputation?” she asked.

“Impeccable. I hear a lot of secrets in this place, and absolutely nothing juicy has come to my ears.”

“Is she that clean?”

“More like she’s that fastidious about cleaning up after herself.”

That might work. Kizzie chewed on her lip, her new idea slowly taking form in the back of her head. “If you think of anything else,” she said, “let me know.”

Veterixi pretended to tip a hat toward her. “My pleasure. Was that it?”

Kizzie nodded to the corner booth at the far end of the club, where Sibrial was still playing cards. “If you can think of anything to get me on his good side, let me know.”

“I’m a club concierge, not an omnipotent being,” Veterixi replied.

“Is it that bad? I didn’t know it would matter so much. The fines were a pittance for him.”

Veterixi made a sound in the back of her throat. “It wasn’t about the fines he had to pay, it’s about the fact he had to pay them at all. You humiliated him when all you had to do was give the magistrate an alibi.”

“He ran over a little boy with his damned carriage. Broke the kid’s leg and could have killed him.”

“And even if he did kill the kid, Sibrial is the Vorcien heir. You still should have lied to the magistrate.”

Veterixi was right, of course. Guild-family heirs were almost entirely above the law – if not in theory, then in practice. Having the most honest Vorcien enforcer give an alibi was meant to get Sibrial off completely. Instead, Kizzie had told the truth just so she could watch the magistrate yell at her idiot half brother. It was, in retrospect, a moment of vindictive foolishness she should never have indulged. She’d expected Sibrial’s ire over the whole affair. She had not expected to lose favor with Father Vorcien.

“Well, I’d still like to make it up to him.”

“Good luck with that.” Veterixi sounded sincere, but not hopeful. Her eyes suddenly narrowed, and Kizzie followed her gaze back to Sibrial’s table, where one of the porters was leaning over and whispering in Sibrial’s ear. Sibrial’s head came around and he glared directly at the one-way mirror Kizzie was standing behind. Veterixi swore. “That little prick just sold you out to your brother. Glassdamnit, I don’t want to deal with this tonight. I’ll slow him down, you get out of here.”

Kizzie didn’t have to be told twice. Sibrial was already getting up from his table as she bolted for the exit, hurrying as quickly as she could down the winding back passages, past the private rooms, and through the kitchens. She’d almost reached the rear exit when her flight was arrested by a familiar voice barking her name.

“Kizzie!”

Kizzie froze. She fixed a demure look on her face and turned to find Sibrial standing in the hallway behind her. Sibrial was said to look much like their father had at that age, aside from his hair color: barrel-chested with thick arms; a clean-shaven square jaw. He had a cane in one hand and his face was flushed from drink.

“Brother,” Kizzie acknowledged with a slight bow. He must have left instructions with the staff to let him know if she arrived. She swore silently. This was the last thing she needed.

“What the piss are you doing in my club?” he demanded.

“I have–”

“If you say one thing about your privileges I will have you shot.”

Kizzie bit down on her tongue, hard. Sibrial might just do that, consequences be damned. He certainly was unhinged enough. No need to antagonize him. “I came to ask Veterixi if there was anything I could do to make things up to you,” she said, holding out both hands in a gesture of peace.

“Make it up to me? You glassdamned bitch. I was in every paper in Ossa for a week because of you, and you have the nerve to think you could possibly make it up to me? Don’t you bloody move!” He turned in mid-tirade, screaming at a serving girl trying to slip past with a bottle of brandy. The hallway was suddenly silent, including the kitchens at one end and the club at the other. Kizzie could see faces poking around that far corner as curious club members came to see the commotion.

“I’m sorry, Sibrial. I really am. I didn’t know what would happen.” It was a lie that played on Sibrial’s low opinion of her.

“Ignorance is no excuse for betraying me.”

“Betrayal” seemed a strong word for something that had so few real consequences. Kizzie slowly backed her way down the hall, her stomach tying itself in knots. She needed to deescalate things as quickly as possible, or this confrontation would get back to Father Vorcien. She didn’t need that kind of attention right now. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Let’s talk again when you’re sober.” At that, she hurried around the corner, through the kitchens, and out into the alley behind the club. With any luck, Sibrial was drunk enough that he would have no recollection of this in the morning – or at least lose interest in continuing the confrontation.

Kizzie’s luck was absolutely shot through. She was barely halfway down the alley when Sibrial burst out through one of the delivery bays shouting her name. Porters, servants, and enforcers scattered before his fury. Kizzie was ready to abandon her pride completely and hide behind a whiskey barrel, but Sibrial had already spotted her.

“You scummy piece of shit,” he bellowed, advancing quickly. “You aren’t fit to wear the Vorcien sigil. I’ll cut it off you myself!” He searched his belt for a knife but, to Kizzie’s relief, came up with nothing. Instead he brandished his cane. Several more steps and he was upon her.

Sibrial was a noted duelist and boxer, and if he’d had his sword on him he might have killed Kizzie then and there, even if she defended herself. She could not, however, defend herself. Raising her hand to the Vorcien heir was the greatest sin she could commit in the eyes of her father, so she allowed the first blow to strike her unimpeded. The cane cracked against her left arm, hard enough that it went numb immediately. She staggered to one side.

“Sibrial,” she hissed, “don’t do this.” It took all her willpower not to reach for her stiletto, but she reacted in another way – using her sorcery to seize one of her little glass lockpicking beads. It shot from her pocket, so small she could barely see it, and she held it just beside Sibrial’s neck. If he did kill her, the last thing she intended to do before she went was push the damned thing through his neck.

He struck again, hitting the exact same spot. Kizzie hardly felt the blow but it staggered her once more. She caught herself on the wall of the club, swearing quietly, hoping that someone would come out and stop Sibrial before he killed her. Capric would do it, if he wasn’t deep in the dazeglass. Maybe Veterixi, one of his friends, another guild-family heir. Anyone.

She dodged the next blow, and then the next. The hammerglass tip of his cane cracked loudly against the brick, and she held her concentration on the bead floating unnoticed over his shoulder.

“Hold still, damn it! I’m going to give you the beating I should have given you…”

Kizzie lost all patience. She wasn’t going to kill him with that bead, no matter how much she wanted to, but she also wasn’t going to let him kill her. As a lowly enforcer there was nothing she could do in the face of Sibrial’s fury. But as his half sister, she had one option. She ducked the next swing, barreling up against him and grabbing him by his tunic with one hand. “Montego is back in town,” she hissed in his ear. “Do you want my death in the newspapers right now?”

Sibrial jerked himself out of her grip, and for half a moment she thought he would continue his attack. Instead he stared at her, wide-eyed, his cane half raised. His fury was gone, like a candle blown out by a strong wind. He visibly gathered himself. “You’re not worth the beating,” he spat. Whirling, he strode back toward the club service bay.

Kizzie was left alone, holding her left arm, dozens of porters and servants watching her warily. It took the last of her energy to direct the glass bead back into her pocket. Once Sibrial was gone, one of the porters called out to her asking if she needed cureglass. She waved him off and staggered down the alley and out into the street.

She fished a piece of pain-numbing milkglass out of her pocket. It wasn’t very high-resonance, but it took the edge off the pain as feeling came back to her arm. Putting on her gloves and covering her face with a handkerchief, she found a nearby courier office. She pounded on the door until a boy of about thirteen unlocked it.

“Paper,” she instructed. Veterixi had given her one good piece of information: that Glissandi guarded her reputation closely. Kizzie could use that.

The courier boy provided her with a paper and pencil, and she scrawled out a quick note. It said,

She thrust the note and a handful of coins into the boy’s hands. “Deliver this to Glissandi Magna at the High Vorcien Club,” she ordered.

The boy stared at her. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

“Perfectly fine. Go on!” She waited long enough for him to apply the courier’s wax seal, then went back into the street and watched him take off toward the club.

It was not a perfect plan. More than likely, Glissandi would have her Purnian bodyguards try to jump her. But unlike that confrontation with her brother, Kizzie had no qualms about fighting back against some hired muscle. She was in pain, angry, and not a little bit humiliated.

She also had a job to do. One way or another, Glissandi was going to tell her why Adriana Grappo died.