“I don’t often come to Andrej’s when the sun’s up. The games start late.”
“You gamble,” she said.
“I play cards. Poker, mostly.”
“What else?”
“Bridge, when I was a kid. Not so often these days.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“I lost my partner.”
Wind and surf filled the silence between them. She turned from the city and leaned against the railing, arms crossed, head lowered, waiting for the question Caleb did not know how to ask.
“Who are you?” was the best he could manage.
“What do you mean?”
“When I met you, you said you were a cliff runner. You said you broke into Bright Mirror Reservoir because it was good exercise.”
“It was good exercise.”
“And your being a senior Heartstone executive had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m hardly senior,” she said.
“I put myself at risk for you, and I don’t mean just chasing you over rooftops. I didn’t tell the King in Red about you, or the Wardens. I could be fired for that—hells, I could be tried and convicted. I trusted you.”
“Not smart, trusting someone you’ve only met once.”
“I never claimed I was smart. I don’t know if you owe me an explanation, but I want one. And I think you’ll give it to me.”
She walked from the railing to the balcony door. It was locked.
“They don’t open for another twenty minutes.”
“You planned this, I see.”
“Didn’t you?”
She frowned, turned from him, and paced the balcony, weaving between tables and chairs. He did not move, but followed her with his eyes.
At last, she wheeled on him, feet wide-planted, hands on her hips. “Alaxic told me he didn’t trust your security. Not with the Serpents at stake. He knew I ran, and he asked me to run a penetration test. Not to break anything, just get in if I could, and out again.”
“He wanted leverage against the King in Red.”
“Of course. He had to send someone he could trust. But he couldn’t give me anything to help, in case I was caught. So I found a Quechal glyph-artist in the Skittersill who made that pendant. Claimed it would hide me from anything.”
“It did more than hide you.”
She crossed her arms and turned away. Caleb waited.
“I know,” she said at last. “I didn’t realize until after you took it from me. I’ve never dealt with Quechal glyphwork. If the tooth was made with modern Craft, I would have seen right away. I was blind, and I guess I deserve to suffer for it. The blackout, the Tzimet, your dead guard, my dead friends—the cliff runners who died at North Station—those are my fault. So you’re safe. I can’t turn you in, because you’d do the same to me. For all I know, you’ll do that anyway.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Why not?”
He sought the dry blue sky for an answer, finding none. “I need a drink,” he said at last.
“I’ll buy.”
He walked to the balcony door and rapped his knuckle against the glass until the bartender heard, and opened the door to ask their business. “Drinking,” Caleb said, and Mal added, “Dancing.” The bartender regarded them both skeptically, but she recognized Caleb and, after a few thaums changed hands, she let them inside.
Chairs stood on tables. The marble tiles were clean-swept. A quartet tuned on the stage by the dance floor—drums, bass, piano, and trombone, dinner jackets immaculate white. Caleb ordered a gin and tonic, Mal single malt on the rocks; the bartender set the glasses in front of them and busied herself stocking the icebox for the evening.
“To you,” he said. “Whoever you are.”
“That’s hardly a fair toast.” She pulled her glass away from his.
“You know me—my job, my family, or at least my father. I only learned your full name today.”
“Well.” Her whiskey cast golden light on the bar. “My name doesn’t get you much. My parents died when I was a kid. My aunt and uncle couldn’t support me, but a scholarship sent me to a good school, and after that to the Floating Collegium.” Caleb recognized the name: an academy of Craft a hundred miles farther up the coast and inland. Classy place, good sports teams. “Once I graduated, I drifted back to the city. Heartstone was new then, and growing. Alaxic was one of the sponsors of my scholarship, and he offered me a position. How’s that?”
“It’s a start.”
“A start, he says. It’s not as though I know much more about you.”
“You know more than most of the people who work with me.”
“You mean, they don’t know who your father is.”
“I don’t exactly spread it around. Like you say—Temoc’s a pretty common name.”
“I don’t care about your father,” she said with another sip of whiskey. “He’s no mystery. Unlike you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Mal left her drink at the bar, and walked to the band’s dais. She spoke briefly to their leader, passed him a sliver of silver. Half-formed melodies and scales cohered: the bass the spine, the drums ribs, the piano and horn meat and sinews of music.
Her hips rolled to the beat as she returned. She held out a hand, and said, “Let’s dance.”
He let her lead him onto the floor.
Caleb was not a good dancer, but Mal was. She matched his steps, and by her body’s alchemy transformed his unfinished movements into gold. His hand fit below her shoulder blades as if sculpted for that purpose, and her fingers rested warm against his palm.
The walking bass line quickened, and with it Caleb’s steps and Mal’s. Caleb could not tell who led whom. He lifted his arm, perhaps in answer to a suggestion from her wrist, and she spun, white skirt flaring with the force of her revolution. Stepping through, he turned, too, her arm falling to his waist and his to hers.
Drums beat in syncopation with Caleb’s heart, one two quick-step. Their turns swelled and sharpened as cymbals clashed and the drums took their solo.
Mal’s fingers slipped from Caleb’s hand. He lurched, too slow, to catch her, but as she started to fall, invisible cords caught his arm. Her Craft lines snapped taut and Mal stopped in midair, rigid as a plank, her left arm extended toward Caleb. Beneath the skin of her arms and fingers, glyphs glowed silver. With a snap of arm and shoulder, she pulled herself back up, and spun toward him once more.
He let momentum carry her past him. His hand moved in a swift half circle, and he grabbed at empty air. He caught her Craft line, solid, invisible, and cold, and Mal stopped.
Pale light streamed from the scars on Caleb’s arms. He pulled her back to him.
Sweat beaded on her forehead and her lip. “I didn’t know you had glyphwork.”
“I don’t.”
She didn’t ask him to explain. They danced, touching and not touching, bound by invisible cord, each in accelerating orbit of the other. Her glyphs left tracks of shadow in the air, and his scars trailed light.
The band played three songs, a small set, before breaking to prepare in earnest for the evening. Neither Caleb nor Mal objected. Leaning against each other, they staggered to the nearest table and called for the bartender. Waiting, Caleb watched Mal. She hugged her shoulders and shivered. The Craft devoured heat, life force, soulstuff. Combining Craftwork and physical exertion—no wonder she was cold.
“You’re a great dancer,” he said.
“You’re not bad yourself.” Her hands traced a cat’s cradle in the air before her. “What are those scars?”
He turned away from her, to the empty dance floor.
“Tell me.”
“It’s personal.”
“Okay,” she said. “Fine.”
Caleb ordered soda water and Mal a mug of hot tea when the waiter drifted past. After she left, Mal said: “It was an excellent dance. I’m sorry if I was too curious. All the Lords and Ladies know there are parts of my life I don’t like to talk about.”