“You bring the canvas I asked for?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Put the cindersand in the cart, then wrap up those three bodies and toss them on top.”
The teamsters looked at the blood on Kizzie’s jacket but didn’t comment. They knew better than to question a Vorcien enforcer. As they got to work, Kizzie helped herself to some of the stolen goods: three gold watches, six pocketbooks, a couple of pieces of low-quality godglass, and a bottle of twelve-year Ereptian wine.
“Deliver the cindersand first, then take the bodies to Cannery Six on Butcher Street,” she instructed. She waved at the hideout. “Any godglass you find goes to the guild-family. The rest of this shit is yours.”
“Really?” one of them asked in surprise.
“Kizzie Vorcien takes care of her people,” she told them.
“Much obliged, Kizzie!” the teamsters replied in unison.
She returned to the street, where she tossed one of the gold watches in the glassdancer busker’s violin case and made her way across town to the Assembly District. By eleven she’d reached her favorite café, where she rolled up her sleeves to hide the blood on them. She sank into a wrought iron chair in the outdoor seating area, putting her head in her hands, still burning off the fumes of her adrenaline.
She knew plenty of enforcers who liked killing people. They considered it a perk of the job. Not her. It wasn’t going to ruin her life, but it would take her a few weeks until she slept properly again. Tracking down stolen shipments, wiping out petty thieves who’d made a misstep: that was all low-ranking enforcer work. She hadn’t had to do this kind of shit for over a decade. Yet here she was, biting her tongue, doing the dirty jobs. The price of failure, she supposed.
“Kissandra Vorcien.”
Kizzie looked up sharply at the person who pulled out the chair across from her and dropped into it. There was a word of rebuke on her tongue, but she let it die as her sorcerous senses picked up something that told her that this man was a major talent. In front of her was someone whom she vaguely recognized. He was an inch or two shorter than her, with swept-back black hair, a fine scarlet jacket over a gray tunic, and the dark olive skin of an Ossan native. She could see a piece of high-quality skyglass threaded through a piercing on his right ear.
“Glassdamnit,” she found herself saying aloud. Her frustration was instantly forgotten, her fatigue evaporating. “Demir Grappo!”
Demir grinned at her. “You recognize me?”
“Barely!” Kizzie was a seasoned enforcer, someone used to surprises, but seeing Demir Grappo was a damned shock. Gone was the rotund, soft-skinned political genius who’d managed to charm himself into the beds of half the guild-family daughters in Ossa. He’d lost at least three stone, and his face and hands were covered in old scars. Demir looked hard, like he’d worked two lifetimes as an enforcer. She found her mouth hanging open. “Glassdamnit,” she said again.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said with a cheeky grin. “I mean, you didn’t have blood all over you last time we saw each other, but I have to say, you look good.”
“Is that a come-on or a genuine compliment?” Kizzie asked dubiously.
Demir placed his hand on his heart, feigning shock. “I have never flirted with you even once.”
“Yeah, and we both know why.” Kizzie’s snort cracked into a laugh and she found herself grinning. She’d been short on friends as of late. Seeing Demir was a genuine, if unexpected, pleasure. “What happened to you? I mean, I know the rumors, but … you…” She found herself trailing off, her pleasure turning to awkwardness as she tried to figure out what to say to someone who’d sacked a city and then disappeared after a mental breakdown. She mentally checked herself, remembering that she was just an enforcer and he was high above her station in several ways. Would he forgive the impropriety of a childhood friend?
To her relief, his grin remained. “Moved to Marn,” Demir said. “Married a princess, fought pirates on the high seas, and founded a new religion. Now I’m back in Ossa looking for followers.”
Kizzie squinted at Demir, wondering how much of that was actually true. With him, it damn well might be. “Glassdamn, your mother! I’m so sorry. You know how much I looked up to her.”
Demir’s smile wavered, but did not disappear. “Thank you. Tea? Coffee?”
“Coffee.”
Demir gestured over a waiter and ordered. “I’m going to apologize in advance and skip any more pleasantries. I’ve got a very busy day ahead of me. I want to offer you a job.”
“I … have a job,” Kizzie said, blinking at Demir in confusion. She had a thousand questions she wanted to ask. Last time they spoke, Demir was still the very popular governor of an Ossan province. So much had changed.
“You’re out of favor, Kizzie.”
Kizzie felt herself suddenly on the back foot, surprised that he was talking about her instead of himself. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
“And I have asked your brother to lend me your services. He agreed.”
“Which brother?”
“Capric.”
Kizzie rolled her eyes. Capric wasn’t the worst of her half siblings, but he wasn’t the best, either. Their relationship had always been pure business. Lending out one of their enforcers to a family friend – without actually asking the enforcer in question – was typical of his behavior. “So this is one of those things where I don’t have a choice?”
Demir shrugged. “I’m not like that. I’ll tell you the job. If you don’t want it, I’ll tell Capric that I changed my mind. If you do want it … I pay well and I’m a good friend to have.”
Kizzie chewed on the inside of her cheek as the waiter set their coffees in front of them. Was he a good friend to have? Adriana dead, Demir gone for these past nine years. Being lent out to the Grappo wasn’t exactly high-society stuff. On the other hand, he was a guild-family patriarch now, and even if he weren’t he still commanded the respect that any major-talent glassdancer did. Of course she would hear him out.
“I didn’t even know you were back in town.”
“I’ve been home for less than twenty-four hours.” He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. “Well?”
“Lay it out,” she said.
“What do you know about my mother’s death?”
Kizzie shook her head. “Only what I read in the papers. There have been rumors for the last two weeks, but the news only broke this morning. Assassinated on the steps of the Assembly by Grent agents.”
“Six people killed my mother. Only one was caught. I want you to find the other five.”
“Oh.” Kizzie leaned back in her seat, setting down the coffee she’d been about to sip. “I thought all six were from Grent.” Though, now that she thought about it, the newspapers hadn’t actually made that claim.
“I don’t know. The apprehended killer seemed to think so, but that’s the thing about shackleglass: it only provides the truth as the wearer knows it. Public murders are messages, Kizzie. I want to know what message was being sent. Who killed my mother is not as important as why they killed her.”
“You’re not going to deal with this yourself?” Glassdancers were not known to shy away from blood. Demir had never been a violent man, but Kizzie would have thought the murder of his mother would bring that violence out.
Demir flinched and shook his head. “I’m going to approach it from a different angle,” he said thoughtfully. “My mother…” He trailed off, then repeated, “A different angle.”
“Am I just finding and questioning them? Or am I supposed to mete out justice?”
Demir drummed his fingers on the table, looking off into the street. This was clearly not something he’d actually decided on himself. Finally he said, “As you see fit.”