Shadrak ducked down behind a crate filled with empty bottles. The scuff, slap, stomp of dozens of sandaled feet crossed the mouth of the alley in front of him, a long chain of unbroken noise that slowly receded. Ilesa had told him the city was on lockdown because of what he’d done to the First Senator a lifetime ago. She’d gone on ahead with Jeb. The Senatorial Cohort had no interest in them, or if they did, it paled into insignificance compared to the prize of capturing Shadrak. The troubling thing was, if they wanted him so badly, what were they prepared to do to Nils to find him? Shadrak knew he shouldn’t have cared; should have gotten out of the city any way he could and written off this ring business as a waste of time and effort. But he’d given up questioning the silent voice of Kadee that pulled his strings and finally submitted to the yeast of her softening.
He found Ilesa and Jeb staking out the Brenitch and Cawdor Bank from the verandah of the whorehouse across the street. The masked Maresman cast longing looks at the establishment’s frosted glass windows, seemingly more interested in whatever was going on inside, whatever he was missing out on, than in how they were going to rescue Nils from the bank.
“Ignore him,” Ilesa said. “He’s not been getting any lately, what with the festering.”
“Don’t worry yourself on my account,” Jeb shot back. “I still got hands, and I got a picture of you in my head anytime I need inspiration.”
Ilesa chuckled and slapped the Maresman on the shoulder.
“You got a plan?” Shadrak asked.
Ilesa sobered instantly and stared out at the facade of the bank. It was a big building, four stories high and constructed of blocks of what looked like granite. A steady stream of customers went in and out of the double doors, most of them wealthy merchants by the way they dressed: velvet cloaks, foppish hats, heavy coin purses dangling from their belts. It was a thieves’ paradise, but it also had a reputation for being a thieves’ graveyard. Whatever security Brenitch and Cawdor employed, it was certainly effective. So effective, some whispered it was magical. The painted sign above the door could have been brand new, it was so pristine, yet it looked the same sign that had always been there to Shadrak.
“I counted nine Cohort leave via the side door they took Nils through,” Ilesa said.
“Which means there’s only three inside with him,” Shadrak said.
“Maybe they don’t need any more,” Jeb said, wrenching his eyes away from the bawdy house and crossing his arms over his chest. “Nothing to do with the lad, but I reckon they got ways of keeping hold of what they take. The Cohort was just the means of delivery.”
He had a point, and Shadrak was liking the situation less and less. He was a planner, an observer. He’d built his successes on meticulous preparation and caution. But they didn’t have the luxury here. If they didn’t act, and act soon, Nils was going to suffer. The chances of him getting out of this alive were slim to none. Actually, considering the Senate’s obsession with popularity polls, and the fact they wouldn’t risk news of this being leaked, you could drop the “slim”. Fargin was a dead man.
“Leave it to me,” Ilesa said. “You guys go have some fun.” She nodded to the whorehouse. “Oh, sorry, you can’t.” She pretended to read a notice on the door: “No lepers and no pale-faced midgets. Just stay put, and don’t be bored.”
The air around her shimmered and she disappeared.
A whining buzz shot past Shadrak’s ear. He went to slap at a mosquito, but Jeb caught his wrist.
“Don’t know about you, Shadrak, but I ain’t good at being a spare part. Reckon I’ll go cover that side door, in case they come out.”
As Shadrak watched the Maresman saunter across the street, the door of the whorehouse opened behind him.
“You can come in lads,” a woman said. “We’re open for—”
Shadrak turned straight into a waft of perfume and looked up at a corseted bosom. It was a fleeting glimpse only, for next thing he knew, the door was slammed shut in his face.
When he turned back toward the bank, he saw two slender figures step from an adjacent building and follow Jeb. They were both dressed in charcoal grey tunics and britches, their shoes black and shiny. Women. Hair bound up in severe buns. Dressed like bankers, but moving on the balls of their feet like seasoned warriors. Or assassins.
One of them drew a knife, the other a garrote.
And then Shadrak was running, hand flying to his baldric. He called out, but before Jeb could turn, the assassin’s knife slashed across the back of the Maresman’s thigh and he dropped to his knees.
The one with the garrote backflipped once, twice, and with the third came down behind Shadrak. He spun round, at the same time pulling out a punch dagger, bringing it between the garrote and his throat. In the same motion, he drew the second punch dagger and rammed it into the woman’s ribs. Only, she flowed around the strike like water, let go of the garrote, and open-palmed toward Shadrak’s face. He twisted and slashed, corkscrewed over his shoulder, landed in a crouch, thrusting with the other dagger. The woman somersaulted over him. Shadrak turned—straight into an axe-kick. He rolled under it. She came on, a flurry of kicks and punches, and now it was Shadrak’s turn to backflip, one, twice, three times, to create space. He came up standing, and the woman started to circle, eyes of gleaming violet never leaving his.
She feinted, and Shadrak took a step back. She was fast. Too fast. And highly skilled. On instinct, he reached for his thundershot, remembered it was empty. The woman raised her lead knee, lowered it again. She switched stance, back heel coming off the floor. Too late, Shadrak realized it was another feint. She launched herself forward, but rather than kicking, she delivered an overhand right. Shadrak grunted as it connected with his cheek. His skull filled with noise and his vision blurred.
He staggered away to his right, sweeping his blades before him in a defensive arc. When the woman lunged, Shadrak was too dazed to react in time. A punch to the sternum, a kick to the meat of his thigh. He stabbed wildly, hitting only air. He felt the rush of her fist once more, winced against the impact—
But it never found his face.
Thunder boomed—a gunshot—and the woman crumpled to her knees, hissing and spitting. A second shot, and she keeled over, dead.
Jeb limped toward him, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. The other assassin lay prone in the street, a cloud of noxious vapor slowly pluming from her and dissipating on the breeze.
It was then that Shadrak realized there were people screaming outside the bank, calling for the City Watch. Others were pouring out of buildings up and down the street, coming to see what the noise was about. From inside the bank, a fierce tolling of bells and a wailing, unnatural alarm so shrill that it hurt Shadrak’s ears.
The side door of the bank flew open, and Ilesa staggered out carrying Nils in her arms.
“Triggered some magical alarm,” she yelled.
Nils looked limp and lifeless, his face swollen with fresh bruises. The sight of the lad this way sent acid rage coursing through Shadrak’s veins. It should have been him… No, it should have been whoever did this to Nils. But there wasn’t time. Vengeance, as he well knew, would keep. “We need to go,” he said.
“Back to the Wizards’ Quarter?” Ilesa asked. She frowned as she caught sight of Jeb’s hobbled leg.
“The crypt,” Shadrak said. “They’ll have cottoned on to Magwitch by now. We need to get out of the city—the same way Bekra Cy left.”
“Go on without me,” Jeb said, dirty fumes already spilling from the mouth-slit of his mask. “I’ll meet you outside the city walls. The gate guards won’t dare stop a Maresman.”
“Unless they’ve been told you’re rogue,” Ilesa said.
Jeb twirled his gun on his finger. “Then I’ll have to persuade them otherwise. Now go!”
Ilesa swelled until she was the size of an ogre. With Nils slung over her shoulder, she barreled toward an alleyway.
Shadrak glanced at Jeb, who was rapidly disappearing behind a roiling cloud of gas that began to creep out across the street like a fog bank. And then he was off after Ilesa.