“I know all my men, and I don’t know you.”
With a twist of her wrist she dropped a throwing dagger into her waiting palm and sent the weapon spinning. It was really too bad for Galtro that he was a man of principles; a man who expected a foe to face him head on and play fair. Too bad, because Pelkaia didn’t plan on doing any of that.
The blade came in low – too fast for his eye to possibly follow – and buried itself to the guard in his guts. A momentary pang of guilt speared through her. It was a killing wound, which is what she was here for, but it was a slow kill, which wasn’t what she’d had in mind.
He took one hand off the grip of his blade and reached down, his eyes gone round with shock. He touched the spot, lips twitching at the pain, and took his fingers away bloodied. Galtro stared at his red-smeared hand, sweat condensing on his brow.
“Was that really necessary?” he grunted.
She licked her lips and took a step away from him. Her back pressed up against the cold edge of a file shelf. Tangled in uncertainty, she drew her longknife and braced her stance. “It’s what I came here to do.”
“I see.” He staggered backward and shot an arm out to lean his weight against the wall. His hand left a bloodied print, his palm began to slide. Tears glistened in his eyes, bright and unfallen. He let the blade slip his fingertips and it struck the ground with a clatter. She cringed, waiting for the sound of boots in the hall, but all was silent.
“You’re not Thratia’s, are you? You don’t want those bastards in here any more than I do.”
“I care nothing for this city’s politics. I came for myself. I work for no one.”
He slid down the wall until he sat with his legs straight out and his back propped up. He brought both his hands to bare on the wound, pressing down to staunch the flow of blood. He didn’t remove the dagger. He wouldn’t dare.
“Ah, I see it now. It’s always in the eyes with the grieving.” His rueful smile twisted into a groan as he hunched forward, his breaths coming in slow gasps until he had remastered himself. “I’ve seen so many eyes like yours. Weighted down with grief so heavy they start to look empty, like all other emotion has been squeezed out. So, who did you lose?”
The fingers of one hand drummed on her thigh while she turned the blade over and over with the other. Before she could leave, he had to be dead. Should she hasten that? Or should she wait for the fatal wound to take its course? Sweet sands, why was he so calm?
“Come on now, mister.” He coughed, wiped pink-tinged foam on the back of his hand and sucked down a harsh, wheezing breath. “I don’t recognize your face, that’s true, but you must have lost someone here. This is revenge, isn’t it? Well, that’s all right. Really. I know I’m not leaving the Hub alive tonight, and I’d rather someone like you get me than Thratia’s muscle. So, which is it? You lose someone on the line or in the mine-digging?”
“The line,” she said reflexively, unable to hide Kel’s achievements, even if it did reveal a piece of herself.
“Ah. You’re proud. You’re right to be. It’s a hard job, but I’m sure you’re aware of that.” He shivered, lips turning purple as bruised violets, and spoke through half-clenched teeth. “Can you tell me something?”
“What?”
“The name. Who did you lose?”
She glowered at him, struggling to split her focus between his slight movement and her need to keep an ear to the door should Thratia’s people decide to come this way. His question she ignored, turning her head away.
“Might as well tell me. I’m not leaving here tonight. I just want to know the name.”
“Why?”
“I want to know which ghost caught up to me after all these years. Haven’t had a fatality in over a year now, so you must’ve been planning this a long while.”
“Kel,” she snapped, the name bitter on her lips. “His name was Kel.”
“Ah, well. Good lad, he was. I was sorry about what happened to his line, though I don’t think it could have been helped.”
She held up a silencing hand. “Stop there, Galtro. I know it was an accident. But you put them in those conditions, you and Faud and your deals with Valathea–”
He erupted into a coughing fit, too-bright red flecking the corners of his lips. Had she nicked the bottom of his lung with her strike? When the coughing subsided, he tipped his head back against the wall and panted. “It’s not kind to make a dying man laugh, you know. And no, I wasn’t about to feed you any of that bullshit. Of course it wasn’t an accident, whole lines of good workers don’t get wiped out due to an oopsie.”
Cold raked her spine, fingers loosened on the grip of her longknife. “You’re lying.”
“Shit, why would I bother? Kel and his line did some work loading a special ship bound for Valathea. You think that’s a coincidence? And anyway, I told you I know my crews, and I know for a fact Kel didn’t have any family in his life save his mother, so who in the pits are you? A lover?”
She licked her lips and twitched the blade in her hand. “None of your business.”
“Fine, fine, keep it to yourself. I don’t need a guidepost to see it. The boy was talented, and now that I’m looking, well, I see where he gets it from, eh?” He spat blood. “That’s fine work, but you better get the pits out of Aransa after this, lass. The Scorched’s not friendly to your sort, and Thratia’d love to get her claws in you.”
“I consigned myself to death when I began this.”
“Death? You think they’re just going to string you up? You think they’d really toss off such a valuable asset?”
“I’ve seen the executions over the years. Men and women I knew as illusionists beheaded on the guardhouse roof. They were as strong as I, if not stronger, and they were not preserved.”
“And these strong doppels you watched die, don’t you think they could whip up a mask? Cover a tramp’s face with their own, so the cruel and unsavory die while the valuable are whisked away into obscurity?”
She shivered, sent a nervous glance toward the closed door. Were those steps she heard? Or the startled leaping of her own heart? “No illusionist would agree to such a thing.”
“They have no choice, woman, this is what I am trying to tell you. Once in Valathea, sel cannot be simply found or siphoned. It is tightly controlled, and the doppels even more so. Stronger the power, stronger the need, or so I’m told. How long do you think you could stand it, not touching sel?”
Her stomach knotted, her skin grew clammy. After only a week without coming in contact with selium she began to get headaches. Headaches that grew and darkened her vision as time went by. She remembered days sweating alone in bed, pain in every leaking pore until sustenance was returned. Her fingers trembled with the memory of it.
“I see you understand. Look, let me cut to it. You don’t want Thratia getting her hands on you, and I need a favor.”
“What makes you think you’re in any position to bargain with me?”
He snorted and spat blood. “Lady, you know full well those are Thratia’s thugs out there looking for me. They’ll kill everyone who steps foot in this place while they’re here, stomping out possible witnesses. And for what, do you think? She’s got the wardenship bagged, I’d never win it.”
Pelkaia licked her false lips. “She wants an excuse to seize control immediately.”
“Right-o. She’s convinced there’s a live-blooded doppel in this city, and she wants you for herself. So she’ll frame you for tonight’s slaughter. Use it as an excuse to clamp down and start a hunt for you. You won’t make it through that net, lass. When the folk of Aransa see some of their mining boys and girls dead, well, they won’t care too much about my hide, but that’ll hit home.”