Steel's Edge

FIVE

WHEN Charlotte awoke, sunlight was spilling through the windows into the room, the delicate and pale radiance of the late morning coloring the light yellow bedding a faint peach.

Richard stood by the door, with his bare back to her. He’d changed into dark trousers and was holding a white shirt. Muscle corded his back, hard and powerful, bulging under bronzed skin, as if he had absorbed the sun’s warmth and now was suffused with it. He was built like a predator, lean, strong, fast, and perfectly balanced. Frightening in his potential for violence yet irresistibly compelling. She wanted to run her hand up his back, tracing the contours of the muscle underneath. It was a completely sensual desire, a physical need free of rational thought. He was so different from her, so very masculine, and she wanted to reach for him.

Richard raised his arms, pulling on the shirt. The muscles flexed under his skin, bulging on his broad shoulders. She watched, mesmerized. Last night, when she had crawled into a strange bed, feeling half-dead, it occurred to her that she was in the house of a criminal, deep in the worst part of the city. If Jason Parris wanted to murder them, he could at any time and with complete impunity. Nobody even knew where they were. Her fear had spiraled, threatening to explode into a panic attack. Then Richard had sat down with his back against the door last night, and her anxiety had faded. Somehow she was completely sure that nothing would make it past him to harm her. It was selfish, but she closed her eyes knowing he wouldn’t move till morning, and she slept well.

No woman could mistake the way he had looked at her last night when she had stepped out of the shower. She had looked at him too, through the curtain of her eyelashes, when he emerged, his skin clean, his hair damp. She looked at him even though she knew she shouldn’t have. He embodied strength, and she felt weak, despite knowing otherwise. Further, she had survived terrible things, and she was tempted to remind herself that she still lived in the most primal of ways. She wouldn’t do it to him, however. First, it was simply not done, not in this fashion and not after a mere two days of knowing each other. Second, Richard made it plain that his effectiveness depended on having no attachments. He would resent her.

Neither of them were in their right mind. People who had nothing to lose often did crazy things, and she had to listen to the voice of reason.

He turned.

She’d remembered that he was handsome, but his face caught her by surprise. His intelligent, intense eyes took her measure, and she had to fight not to stammer.

“Good morning,” Richard said.

She called upon her years of training, and when she spoke, her voice was completely even. “Good morning.”

“Jason’s people brought us new clothes,” he said, pointing to a stack of clothing in the chair. “They’re old and probably not quite as nice as what you’re used to, but we mustn’t attract attention. In the Cauldron, new clothes are likely to get us killed, and we probably want to avoid that, if at all possible.”

He should’ve slept a lot longer, considering his injury. “How long have you been up?”

“Not that long.”

“Come here, please.”

He approached the bed. Charlotte sat up, holding the sheet over her chest, raised her hand and touched his neck with her fingers. His skin felt hot under her fingertips. An excited flutter dashed through her. She smelled the light scent of soap emanating from his hair and skin, a hint of spice and citrus.

Really now. She was thirty-two years old. She could hold her libido in check. Charlotte focused. Her magic slipped out of her fingers and sank into his skin. The wound had almost completely healed. His temperature was normal. Mild dehydration, slightly elevated pulse. In fact, it rose in the brief seconds she touched him. Of course, she told herself. He’d seen her butcher sixteen people. Naturally, he would be alarmed when she touched him. Charlotte dropped her hand.

“Clean bill of health,” she said.

“Glad to hear it.”

He was looking at her. The daylight streaming through the gap in the curtains painted a light gold stripe across his face, tinting his skin gold and bringing a rich russet tint in his irises. He was handsome, his body was strong and fit, and the danger he radiated just enhanced his pull. When Charlotte looked at him, really looked at him as she did now, he was striking.

And she had no business looking at him. Both of them were on a mission, and it left no room for softness or attraction.

“We never talked about the plan,” she said.

“It’s simple,” he said. “We impersonate slavers and their catch, board the ship, and ride it to the Market. Once we near the port, you may have to eliminate the crew. It will have to be done quickly and silently, so as not to alarm those on land.”

“Can Jason’s people operate the ship?” she asked.

“He assures me that they can. Whatever his other faults are, Jason is efficient and competent. This is a port city, and there are many former sailors in his crew. We’ll dock and let Jason and his cutthroats do what they do best. Meanwhile, you and I will go and find the bookkeeper. We must eliminate the people at the top of the slaver’s food chain, and for that we will need the bookkeeper alive. Once we know the identity of his superiors, we’ll go from there.”

She would have to kill again. She knew what she had signed up for when she demanded to come with him. Now wasn’t the time to get squeamish. “It’s a sound plan,” she said. “How large a crew do you expect me to kill?”

“The ship they will be using is likely fast, maneuverable, and unremarkable. I’m betting on a brigantine or albatross, which means fifteen to twenty people at most. Will it be an issue?”

That was a complicated question. “No. No issue,” she told him.

Richard stood up. “I’ll wait outside the door for you.”

He took his sword and stepped out.

In that moment, when she found that red spark inside, she had known exactly what the consequences would be. Her life as a healer was over. Her life as an abomination would be brutal and devoid of sympathy or warmth, but probably short. It would be worth it, she told herself. If no other child ever had to cry the way Tulip had because the slavers had taken someone from her, it would be worth it.

THE corpse lay on a table, a large male about ten years older than Jason but with a similar skin tone. The flesh on the corpse’s cheek bore the same pattern as the scar on Jason’s face.

The corpse looked fresh. Was it a rival, a long-standing enemy? Or more likely, some man off the street who happened to resemble Jason Parris. Charlotte exhaled quietly. She had walked into this world on her own. She would deal with it.

Richard leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. The crime lord sat next to the corpse in a chair. Miko leaned against the wall as well, as if mirroring Richard, one leg bent, her foot propping her up. She was a strange girl, quiet, her narrow face calm, but there was this odd hint of unpredictability about her, as if she was just waiting for the right moment to stab someone.

The disfigurement on the corpse’s face looked red and fresh. The marks on Jason’s face were more than a year old.

“How will you age the burn?” Charlotte asked.

“We have a necromancer,” Jason said. “She will age it. Is there anything you need to heal me?”

She shook her head.

The aftereffects of fatigue were still there, pooling in her bones, but she’d recovered much faster than she had expected. If she had healed sixteen people yesterday, she would be in bed, unable to move. But now, she felt . . . refreshed. Relieved, as if some heavy physical burden had been lifted off her shoulders. The irony.

Healing is a noble sacrifice, Lady Augustine’s voice instructed from her memories. Harming is a selfish perversion.

The burden wasn’t truly gone, Charlotte reflected. She had simply traded the pressure created by the imbalance in her magic for the weight of murder on her mind.

“So this healing, is it a special talent?” Jason asked.

“Yes.”

“Some magic can be taught.”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes. Flashing can be taught and improved through practice, even for someone from the Broken, assuming they have any magic at all. Healing can be made more efficient, but you must be born with the talent.”

Jason was looking at Richard. “Your sword thing is a flash, isn’t it?”

Richard nodded.

Jason looked at her. “I’ve seen a lot of strange magic shit here but never what he does. I asked him to teach me, but he won’t.”

“You do enough harm as it is,” Richard said.

Jason grinned. “Aww, you hurt me, old man.”

Richard raised his eyes to the heavens. “I’ve unleashed you on this poor unsuspecting city. I simply feel sorry for the cutthroats of Kelena. If I teach you to flash, there will be none of them left.”

“I don’t need flash for that.” Jason touched his scar. “Let’s get on with it.”

Charlotte took a chair and set it in the beam of light spilling through the high window near the ceiling. “Sit, please.”

He sat down. Charlotte stepped closer, turning his face with her fingertips to better view the scar in the light. A second-degree burn, extending into the reticular dermis, the deep layer of skin that cushioned the body against stress. She’d healed worse.

She raised her hand and let the golden sparks of her magic sink into his skin. He held completely still, his unnerving gray eyes steady.

The damage was extensive. She sank into the task of repairing the tissue destruction. When a body sustained an injury, specialized cells, which the Broken doctors called “fibroblasts” and the College healers called “suture cells,” sprang to the rescue. They moved into the wound and began secreting collagen, traveling within the clot until finally they anchored and closed the gash. The moment this anchoring took place was determined by many factors, and when the process went on too long, it led to the buildup of fibrous tissue and sometimes, if the scars formed on organs, fibrosis, which could be fatal.

The scar itself was comprised of the same collagen fibers as the regular skin, but instead of crisscrossing, these fibers aligned in the same direction. She had to soften the stiff tissue of the scar and then painstakingly shift the collagen fibers within the skin to approximate its normal basket-weave pattern. It was slow, methodical work. Facial scars required precision—the symmetry of the face was at stake. The room, Richard, Jason, all of them faded. Only the injured tissue remained, and she focused on realigning it.

As if through a wall, she heard muffled voices.

“You’re getting your scar healed, and you’ve procured a body double,” Richard said. “Why the sudden need to appear dead?”

“The Mirror is taking an interest in me,” her patient answered.

“What did you do?”

“Many things, none of them good, but none of them concern the spooks either. They’re watching me, and I don’t like it.”

“I warned you, Jason,” Richard said.

“Don’t lecture me, old man.”

“You’re expanding too fast and killing too many. Violence attracts attention.”

Jason sighed. “In case you failed to notice, I’ve been doing pretty well.”

“The Five Gangs are frothing at the mouth trying to put you on the bottom of the ocean, Rook has placed a bounty on your head, and now the Mirror’s agents are watching your house. Your definition of ‘well’ is troubling at best.” He suddenly smiled and affected a slight accent. “‘I do not think that word means what you think it means.’”

He was obviously quoting something he and Jason seemed to know that she did not.

Jason grinned. “Ha, she ain’t a princess, and you wish you were that good a swordsman.” He turned to Charlotte. “How do you stand him?”

“He sleeps by the door with his sword to keep me safe,” she told him. “Don’t move.”

Finally satisfied, she withdrew her magic and took a step back.

He looked good. It was one of her finer restorations. Relief washed over Charlotte. She could still heal. She had lost none of her skill or power. She hadn’t realized until now that she’d been afraid taking lives might come at the cost of the primary purpose of her magic. She knew it didn’t preclude her from healing; she just wasn’t sure if her control or precision had been compromised.

The post-healing fatigue wrapped around her, making her dizzy. Jason touched his face. The scar had aged him, but now she could see his face more clearly, and Charlotte realized he was still a young man.

Miko stepped up and offered him a mirror. Jason looked at himself. His eyes widened.

“Magic hands,” he said. “That’s a very valuable talent. Almost makes a man regret that he doesn’t own it.”

“Touch her and lose your fingers,” Richard said, his voice casual.

Jason looked at her. “Come work for me. I’ll take better care of you.”

“No.”

“See, the problem with Richard is, he doesn’t know how to treat a woman. You have to take care of women properly. A woman is like a horse.”

Dawn Mother, not one of those. “How so?”

“When you want to tame a horse, you offer her an apple. She has to get used to your scent and your delicious apples before she’ll let you put the bridle on her. Soon, if you ignore her, she’ll follow you waiting for a handout. If you keep bringing her treats, eventually she’ll let you ride her.”

Mhm.

Richard was leaning against the table like a dark shadow, his pose relaxed, his lips smiling, but his eyes watched Jason with complete focus. Like a wolf sighting his prey, she realized.

Jason smiled, displaying even white teeth. At her position on the wall, Miko rolled her eyes.

“All I’m saying is I have plenty of apples,” the crime lord said. “You should give it some thought. You’d like my apples.”

Charlotte leaned closer to him. “Jason, whoever told you this nonsense isn’t your friend. Women aren’t horses, or dogs, or cats. We’re human beings, and the sooner you figure that out, the less likely you will wake up with Miko’s knife in your throat.”

He stared at her.

“You asked me what I want. I want to crush the slave trade. Having a fling with you doesn’t appeal to me. You’re handsome, but you’re too inexperienced and too arrogant to be good in bed. Having ridden many horses doesn’t make you a good rider; it just proves that you can’t recognize a good one or don’t know how to keep her. You’re too young for me, and in ten years, when you improve, I will be too old for you. So let’s not speak of this again.”

A thin, high-pitched sound came from the wall. Miko was snickering.

Jason turned in his chair and looked at her, outraged.

She giggled some more.

The crime lord blinked and turned back to Charlotte. “Some people would be worried. Words like that can get your throat slit.”

“Some people don’t realize healing can be done in reverse,” she told him. “Why don’t you ask Voshak what he thinks about that?”

Richard stalked across the floor and came to stand by her side.

“You’re as crazy as he is,” Jason growled.

“Now you’re getting the idea,” Richard said.

“Even if we sack the Market and you get your information, what can you do?” Miko said suddenly. “You’re only two. The slavers are hundreds.”

Richard grimaced. “I know. It’s a shame, really. I would’ve liked to give them a sporting chance, but sometimes life simply isn’t fair.”

Charlotte smiled. You had to admire the man.

“Your face is restored to its former beauty.” Richard turned to Jason. “Are you going to hold up your end of the bargain?”

Jason rose and pulled the hood of his cloak over his face. “I’m on it, old man. I remember. You said the ship lands at midnight. Where is he planning to dock?”

“Teal Inlet.”

“Meet me two miles north of it tonight at ten.”

He left the room, Miko in tow.

“What now?” Charlotte asked.

“Now we go to the city,” Richard said. “I have contacts here. We’ll need them for tonight.”

IN the daylight, Kelena didn’t look any better, Charlotte reflected, walking with Richard along the canal. It smelled the same, too. At least the dead body was gone, probably swept out to sea by the tide. They had left the dog at Jason’s house. She didn’t the see the harm in his coming, but Richard pointed out that if he bit someone, they would likely be drowned in the nearest canal. They locked him in a room with a cow femur from Jason’s kitchen.

Richard turned into the narrow alley between the houses, barely wide enough to let them move side by side. The alley opened into a small courtyard, formed by the tall walls of surrounding buildings. Another, much wider alley to the right led from the courtyard, and three men blocked it. They didn’t look friendly.

Her throat tightened. Her pulse sped up, and an uncomfortable heaviness filled her chest. Charlotte swallowed, but the tightness refused to dissolve. There was going to be a fight.

It’s just a physical reaction, she told herself. It’s just fear. Her anger and outrage had numbed her yesterday, but that armor had melted during the night. She was very much aware she was alive. She was afraid.

Charlotte squared her shoulders. She had to handle it.

The front man, hard, large, bald, with swirls of dark tattoos running over his pale scalp, grinned. His lips stretched unnaturally far, showing a mouthful of two-inch-long fangs. Spiked strips of metal covered his knuckles.

His magic washed over her, grating against her skin like a handful of sharp sand. A familiar revulsion drowned Charlotte. Her fear spiked in response. The man had been modified with illegal magic, the kind the Dukedom of Louisiana used for the Hand, its covert agents. She’d dealt with it before. A modification made its recipients stronger, faster, and more deadly. It also robbed them of their humanity and was nearly always impossible to reverse.

Charlotte focused on the two friends of the alligator-mouth. The one to the left was tall, armed with a short mace tipped with a fist-sized chunk of metal. The one to the right, leaner and probably faster, carried two knives. The red rash on the knife fighter’s neck indicated a case of advanced luries, which is what happened when one had sex with unhealthy partners without protective measures.

Of the three, the modified alligator-mouth man posed the biggest threat. Charlotte felt the magic stir inside her. It yawned, stretched, like a cat rising from a nap, and licked its teeth. Infection wouldn’t be fast enough. She’d have to tear into them and try to cause organ failure.

“The man with the strange teeth is enhanced with illegal magic,” she murmured for Richard’s benefit. “The one with knives has a swollen groin.”

He blinked. “Thank you. I’ll take it under advisement.”

She’d never done a direct unhealing before. Infection, yes, but nothing that caused internal bleeding with the exception of her slip with Elvei. A coppery taste appeared on her tongue. Adrenaline.

The alligator-mouth realized that his toothy display wasn’t having the desired effect. “You’re lost,” he called, his voice deep.

Richard kept walking. She followed him, the dark currents spinning inside her.

“Don’t worry, we’ll show you and your bitch the right direction.”

“So kind of you,” Richard said, and then he moved.

One moment he was next to her, the next he had smashed his hand into the alligator-mouth’s throat. The man jerked back, and Richard twisted him over his arm, driving the full weight of his opponent to the ground. Before the leader landed, Richard hammered a kick to the macer’s knee. The cartilage crunched, the leg bent the wrong way, and the man crumpled. Richard caught the mace, pulled it from the falling man’s hand, and pivoted to the knife fighter. The handle of the mace danced in his hand, sinking solid blows—head, solar plexus, groin—and the knife fighter dropped to the ground, curling into a ball.

Alligator-mouth surged to his feet and lunged at Richard, hands out, jaw gaping. Richard knocked his right arm aside, locked his hand on the man’s wrist, jerking it down, smashed the mace handle against the nerve cluster at the base of the man’s exposed neck, and hit him again just below the jaw.

The big man staggered, as if drunk, waved his arms, fighting desperately to remain upright, then half sat, half fell on the ground, his eyes dazed.

Charlotte closed her mouth.

It happened so fast, she didn’t even help. She had simply stood there. The healer in her cataloged the injuries: one traumatized throat, one tear to the posterior cruciate ligament of the knee—a partial at the very least. A full tear was more likely with impaction of the anterior aspect of the femoral condyle against the anterior aspect of the tibial plateau. Richard had kicked the attacker so hard he knocked the bones of the leg together, bruising the femur and tibia. A full tear would mean a healer like her or a ligament graft, because once that ligament ripped completely, no surgeon could sew it back together. Two concussions—one mild, one severe—one sprained neck, one sprained arm, multiple bruises, and three dignities irreparably damaged. All in less than five seconds. And he hadn’t even unsheathed his sword.

Richard approached her and held out his hand. Shell-shocked, she rested her fingers on his, and he helped her step over the bodies into the narrow alley leading from the courtyard.

Talk, she told herself. Talking makes you appear confident. She couldn’t afford to let him know that he’d shocked her. She had to appear cool and collected because that’s what he needed in a partner. “I thought Jason would better control his territory,” she said. Her voice sounded normal. She’d expected it to shake.

“They were probably his men,” Richard said.

“What do you mean?”

“You humiliated him,” Richard said. “This was the way he showed his displeasure.”

“I suppose you’ll now point out that this is the result of me speaking for myself.” Just try it . . .

“That would be satisfying for me, but not entirely accurate. I’ve visited the city on four occasions since he took control of the Cauldron, and he prepared a lovely surprise for me every time. The hardest was an Erkinian woman. We fought for three full minutes, and I thought she’d kill me.”

They seemed to have a love-hate relationship. Jason admired Richard—she’d read that much in his face and the way he looked at him—and wanted his approval, while at the same time resenting Richard for it. “Jason has father-figure issues, doesn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes.” Richard sighed.

“In that case, it’s good that you’re a human Cuisinart,” she said.

“I’m sorry?”

“A Cuisinart. It’s an appliance from the Broken. You put vegetables into it, push a button, and it chops them into tiny pieces.”

Richard frowned. “Why would you need an appliance to chop vegetables? Wouldn’t it be easier to chop them with a knife?”

“It’s meant to save time,” she explained.

“Does it?”

“Well, cleaning it usually eats up most of the time you save on chopping.”

“So you’re telling me that I’m useless.”

“It’s a neat gadget!”

“And I’m hard to clean, apparently.”

She checked his face. Tiny sparks danced in his eyes. He was pulling her leg. Well. If that’s how it is . . . “Considering last night’s argument, I think that you’re remarkably difficult to clean.”

“There probably is a retort to this that’s not off-color,” he said. “But I can’t think of one.”

They reached the middle of the alley. A street person sat on the filthy pavement, a sad, hunched-over figure swaddled in rags. His hair hung over his face in an oily gray tangle. A bitter stench of rotting fish rose from his clothes. He looked old and tired, his face a mess of grime. The dirt was caked so thick she could barely see his eyes, his pupils milky white. He was suffering from cataracts.

The beggar raised his cup and shook it at Richard.

Richard glanced at the beggar. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned darker. Richard bent down and dropped a coin into the cup. “Third tooth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Two hours. Bring your brother.”

The beggar pulled back his cup, his head drooping lower.

Richard straightened and took her firmly by the elbow. His touch was light, but Charlotte realized she wouldn’t be able to get away. Richard drew her away from the beggar, down the alley.

“Don’t look back,” he murmured. “That was George.”

The urge to turn around was overwhelming. “George Drayton? Éléonore’s George?”

He nodded.

Her heart beat faster. The boys would have to be told what happened to Éléonore. She was their grandmother. They deserved to know. Her throat closed up. What would she say? There was no way to soften the blow. It would be devastating. She was a grown woman, and seeing Éléonore’s body burning had torn a hole in her life that filled with grief, guilt, and anger. They were children who had known Éléonore all of their lives. She was the safe haven of their childhood, the one person besides their sister who loved them no matter what and would never abandon them. She made their world safer, and now that illusion of safety would be ripped away. Charlotte swallowed. She had to find the right words somehow.

It occurred to her that George sat in filth on a street. “Why is George dressed as a beggar? I thought the Camarine family had adopted the boys?”

“He and his brother work for the Mirror.”

They’re spies? Wait a minute. “Richard, George’s only sixteen. Jack should be fourteen.”

He took a second to glance at her. “Yes?”

“Aren’t they too young? They’re barely in their teens.”

“Some children are less childlike than we like to pretend,” he said. “At George’s age, I had killed two people and watched my father’s head explode as he was shot dead in a market. What were you doing at sixteen, Charlotte?”

The long field filled with moaning people surfaced from her memory. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the toxic stench of warped magic, and the smell of smoke rising from the town a few fields away.

“At sixteen I was healing the victims of the Green Valley Massacre.”

“And George is being inconspicuous to—”

A boy shot into the alley ahead, slid on garbage, caught himself, and dashed toward them. Reddish brown hair, cropped short, handsome face, dark eyes, completely wild with excitement. She’d seen this boy before in a photograph . . . Jack!

“Run!” Jack yelled. “Run! Go, George!”

Behind him a mob of enraged people spilled into the alley, brandishing knives and clubs.

The beggar-George jumped to his feet. “What did you do?”

“There he is!” the man at the head of the mob roared. A rock whistled past their heads, ricocheting from the side of the building.

“Run!” Jack yelled.

Blue lightning shot out of the crowd—someone had flashed. Oh no.

Jack jumped six feet in the air, avoiding the glowing ribbon of magic by a hair, bounced off the wall, and sprinted straight at them.

“Hi, Richard, hi, pretty lady!” Jack dashed past them.

Richard grabbed her hand. ‘We have to go!”

They broke into run and chased after Jack, running fast on the cobbled stones. George swore and tossed something over their heads at the crowd. A dry pop burst behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. A plume of dense white smoke filled the alley. People coughed.

The blue-glowing whip of someone’s flash struck out of the smoke, licking the cobbles. Someone in this mob was throwing magic around blind. This city was insane.

They cleared the courtyard and the narrow alley, burst out onto the boardwalk, and pounded down the street. The entrance to Jason’s hideout flew by. The air grew hot in Charlotte’s lungs.

A small wooden dock rose on their left. “Go right!” Richard yelled, too loud, and leaped off the boardwalk into the dark water, pulling her in with him. The tepid water swallowed her. Charlotte gulped a mouthful of salty liquid and nearly choked. Gods alone knew what sort of contamination was in that water.

Charlotte kicked her feet and surfaced, spitting the water out. Richard pulled her under the dock, just as two other bodies hit the water a foot away. A moment, and George and Jack broke the surface next to them. The four of them huddled under the dock, their backs against the canal wall, among dirty foam and garbage.

The mob spilled onto the boardwalk. Charlotte held her breath.

“They went right!” someone yelled. “To the Reed Alley!”

Boots pounded above them, shaking drops of water from the dock’s boards onto them.

The filthy wet creature that was George raised his hand, gave his brother a death stare, and drew his thumb across his neck. Jack grinned.

A dead fish floated up from the depths right next to Charlotte. Ew. She pushed it gently aside with her fingers.

The last of the stragglers ran past, the noise of the mob retreating. Richard waded to the left, walking along the canal wall at a brisk pace. She waited to make sure the kids followed and went after him.

Fifteen minutes and two canals later, they climbed out onto the boardwalk. Jack shook himself. Filthy water ran from George’s rags in dirty streams. His hair dripped. He stared at his brother, his face grim. If stares had temperature, Jack would’ve turned into a burned-out match.

Charlotte gulped a breath, hoping for some fresh air and finding none. Her own soaked clothes smelled like rancid seaweed. Water filled her shoes, and something slimy had wedged itself under the toes of her left foot.

Richard ducked into another alley, and she followed, limping and making squishy noises on the cobbles. The boys brought up the rear.

Nobody said anything for the next ten minutes until Richard stopped before a warehouse. The small wooden door swung open. A woman stepped out in front of them, carrying a metal bucket filled with bloody water. She hurled the contents into the canal.

Great. Fantastic. Once they were somewhere safe, she would sit everyone down and check them for infection.

Richard held the door open, his eyes scanning the boardwalk.

Charlotte ducked inside and stepped into a large gymnasium. Men and women, stripped down and sweaty, punched and kicked heavy sandbags. A man and a woman, both muscled with crisp definition, sparred on the reed mats; another pair of fighters squared off, their hands raised, in the roped-off ring raised on a wooden platform. A din hung above the muscular bodies: the rapid staccato of smaller bags being hit, the thuds of kicks hammering at the heavier bags, guttural cries, and rhythmic breathing.

Charlotte took a step forward. Everything stopped. The gymnasium went completely silent. As one, the fighters looked at her. None of the faces were friendly.

Not good. She straightened her shoulders, raising her head. Behind her, Jack took a deep breath.

Richard stepped through the doorway and strode ahead of her, oblivious to the hostility in the room.

A middle-aged, overweight man stepped away from the ring and walked toward Richard, his steps unhurried. A scar cut across his tan face, just a hair shy of his left eye. Half of his right earlobe was gone, the edge of the old wound ragged and uneven. Bitten off, Charlotte realized.

If there was a problem, she’d push the teens outside and block the door. At least she’d buy them a few minutes.

Richard and the overweight man met in the middle of the floor. The man’s eyes were grim.

Here we go.

The overweight man hugged Richard, turned, and went back to the ring. The punches and grunts resumed. Richard nodded at them. “Back room.”

As soon as they were alone, she would punch him, Charlotte promised herself. No, no she wouldn’t, because resorting to physical violence wasn’t proper. Then again, it might be considered self-defense. If she died as a result of this journey, it wouldn’t be because of slavers. It would be because Richard’s inability to communicate would give her a heart attack.

RICHARD closed the door of Barlo’s back room and glanced about: a long table, two benches, a sink with a freezing unit next to it, and a scale . . . empty. Barlo had used this chamber as one of the two rooms where fighters warmed up before bouts.

His heartbeat slowed. So much of his life in these past months had been spent waiting, calculating, watching. Moments like this, born from excitement and danger, when he ran along the steel edge of his sword, matching his wits against opponents, were when he felt truly alive. His heart pumped, the world seemed brighter, the experiences sharper, and he loved every bit of it.

“Richard!”

He turned.

Charlotte faced him. Her wet tunic molded to her figure, and her hair, which she’d put up into a neat knot, had come undone and hung over her face. That air of detachment and civility had been washed away, as if someone had taken an elegant cat, groomed to within an inch of its life, and dumped a bucket of water on it. Her expression had the same shock, outrage, and promise of violence.

If he laughed, she’d probably kill him. Quite literally.

Charlotte opened her mouth, clamped it shut, opened it again . . .

He strained to keep his face solemn. “My lady?”

“Words.”

She seemed on the verge of breaking down or screaming. It was best to tread carefully. “Words are good,” he agreed.

She raised her hands. “I want to punch you.”

Richard almost doubled over. He’d driven the quintessential aristocrat to crude violence. It had to be about the canal. Oh, the indignity. “I know the water isn’t the cleanest, but we had no alternative.” He let the mask drop a little and smiled. “I promise you, it will be okay. Before you know it, we’ll be warm and dry.”

“I don’t care about the bloody canal! Simple words, Richard! Like ‘We’re safe’ or ‘They won’t harm us!’ Or ‘He’s an old friend.’” She made a short cutting motion with her hands. “Something! I thought we were about to get pummeled.”

Pummeled here? At Barlo’s? Did she think he would bring her to somewhere where she would be unsafe? “Of course you were safe. I took you in here.”

“You also took me to Jason’s, where you then slept holding your sword.”

Oh, really now. He took a step toward her. “I assure you, my lady, that you were perfectly safe. If anyone put a hand on you, they’d lose it, and everyone inside that place knew it.”

Charlotte clenched her hands. “Aargh!”

“I’m just trying to clarify.” He knew he should’ve let it go, but the idea that he would stupidly put her in danger irritated him beyond belief. “So you want me to tell you if we’re in danger or if we’re safe. You do realize that there may not be an opportunity to warn you every single time?”

Charlotte dropped onto the bench. “I would settle for some of the time at this point.”

Richard couldn’t stop himself. “As shocking as it seems, occasionally you may have to rely on your own judgment. For example, if we’re running from a mob, we’re probably not safe.”

Charlotte’s gaze was sharper than a knife. “One more word of mocking, and I’ll infect you with papillomavirus.”

She had graduated to actual threats. What was it with this woman? “Pray tell, what would that be?”

“Warts,” George said.

Laughing was out of the question, he reminded himself. “My apologies. Please allow me to remedy the situation by using words: we’re safe here. Barlo’s an old friend. His fighters know me. We can speak openly here.”

She hung her head.

George yanked the sodden mass of hair off his hand and hurled it across the room at his brother. Jack dodged, and the wig splattered against the wall.

“You moron!”

“Me?” Jack blinked, an expression of angelic innocence on his face.

“You!” A white glow sheathed George’s eyes. “Two weeks! I spent two weeks watching Parris, and you screwed it up for me. All you had to do was stay out of the way and watch for his people coming out. What the hell did you do?”

Jack shrugged. “I stole a fish.”

Richard hid a laugh. If he had a doubloon for each time he and Kaldar had had this precise conversation . . .

George’s blue eyes went wide. “Why?”

“I was hungry. And bored. But mostly hungry.” Jack spread his arms. “Look, I took one small fish, then the guy started screaming, so I slapped him with it. It wasn’t my fault he tripped and fell into a stall of fruit. So I laughed, and they all started chasing me.”

The rage written on George’s face imploded into icy determination. His voice was suddenly calm. “And so you had this pissed-off mob chasing you. Why did you lead them my way?”

Jack widened his eyes in mocking sincerity. “Because you needed a bath.”

George pulled his rags over his head and dumped them on the floor. He wore a gray-and-black tunic and pants. Good choice, Richard decided. The clothes hugged his body, while allowing ample freedom of movement. In the few years he had known him, the boy had filled out. George would never be a large man, but he had that devastating combination of lean muscle, quickness, and discipline that made one a lethal swordsman.

“Two weeks in that alley. Rain, heat, people kicking me as they passed by. And you decided I needed a bath.”

“Water is good for you. Really. You were filthy.”

“Mhm,” George said.

“Do you have any idea how badly you smelled?” Jack wrinkled his nose.

“I was supposed to smell. I was pretending to be a beggar. You blew my cover.”

“Your cover was already blown,” Richard said. “Parris knows the Mirror has been watching him.”

“See?” Jack said.

“That’s beside the point. You ruined two weeks of work because you were bored. Now I’ll be pulled off this assignment, and someone else will have to take my place.”

Jack shrugged, slightly less sure of himself. “Good. It’s summer. All you do is work. Maybe we can finally have some fun.”

“I’m going to kill you,” George said calmly.

Another familiar emotion. This had to run its course, or it would fester.

“Boys,” Charlotte began. “I really don’t think—”

A glowing yellow sheen rolled over Jack’s irises. He was two years younger but already the same height as George and wider in the shoulder, with the beginnings of a powerful musculature. Benefits of his changeling blood. Of course, it came with many drawbacks.

Jack motioned at George. “Bring it.”

George lunged forward, swinging his arm. Jack moved to block. Midway through the punch, George twisted, picking up speed, jumped, and kicked his brother in the chest. Jack flew out the door and into the gym.

Nicely done!

Charlotte gasped.

George strode to the door with a determined look on his face.

“George!” Charlotte called.

He turned on his toes, produced an elegant bow, said, “Excuse me, my lady. This won’t take long,” and walked out.

Charlotte looked at Richard. “Why are you just standing there?”

“They’re young men. It’s quite normal,” he told her, and held the door open for her. “It’s better they resolve it now and be done with it.”

She sighed, stood up, and went out into the gym.

The two boys danced across the floor, launching a flurry of kicks and punches, blocking, spinning, jumping. The other activity stopped, and the fighters watched them. Jack clearly had superior strength and speed, but George had studied harder. His movements had the surety born from many hours spent training, while Jack fought on instinct. His instinct was rarely wrong, Richard reflected, as George slid across the floor after taking a powerful kick. But it was no substitute for practice. Still, since William, his cousin’s changeling husband, had taken over Jack’s hand-to-hand education, the boy showed a marked improvement.

George rolled to his feet, lunged, getting inside his brother’s guard, and locked his hands on Jack’s arm. Northern three-point flip, Richard diagnosed. Jack tried to counter with the Lower Sud drop—William’s influence—but the three-point was nearly impossible to stop, and George had gotten a good hold. Trip, turn, flip. Jack flew through the air, and George slammed him onto the ground. Jack’s back slapped the floor.

Ugh. Richard grimaced in sympathy. That had to hurt.

George landed on him and locked his arm into a bar. The fighters cheered.

Next to him, Charlotte winced again. Watching it from the healer’s point of view was probably more trying. He decided to reassure her. “They’re actually quite careful with each other. For example, this takedown was designed to incapacitate the opponent. A quarter turn to the right, and Jack would’ve landed on his neck.”

She gave him an unreadable look.

He felt compelled to explain. “George could’ve broken Jack’s spine . . .”

She raised her hand. “Richard, stop trying to make me feel better. You’re making it worse.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” George said, putting pressure on Jack’s arm. “You’re done.”

“I’m just resting,” Jack told him through clenched teeth.

“You’re done,” George said.

They were at an impasse. Jack wouldn’t admit defeat, and George, despite all his anger, wouldn’t dislocate his brother’s arm. He took a step forward to break them up, but Charlotte beat him to it.

She walked across the gym and crouched by the two teens. “That’s enough, George.” She gently put one hand on his fingers, gripping his brother’s arm. “I have something very important to tell both of you, and it won’t wait.”

“Is it good news?” Jack ground out.

Profound sadness reflected on Charlotte’s face. “No. It isn’t.”

George released Jack’s arm. The boys rolled to their feet.

“Come,” she said, linking one arm with George, the other with Jack, and led them both back into the room.