“That’s probably why they changed the routes. It killed three of them, injured twenty more.”
“Pit.” Michel scratched his head vigorously with both hands, trying to wake up. “Someone” could be other Blackhats, or partisan Fatrastans, or just Palo trying to stir up chaos. It meant bad things for his and Hendres’s efforts. “What time is it?”
“Half past one.”
“Where have you been all morning?”
Hendres sighed, picking at something on her sleeve. “Setting up the next family to get out. And trying to find out how many of us are left.”
By “us,” she meant Blackhats. “Yeah? Any progress?” Michel didn’t want to make contact with any more Blackhats. Someone higher up the food chain might know about his betrayal. But he couldn’t very well tell Hendres that.
“Some. There’s rumors, but everyone is laying low. As far as I can tell, most of the higher-ranking Roses left the city with Lindet.”
“And abandoned their families in the process,” Michel said, unable to help the note of bitterness in his voice. He shouldn’t blame everyone who abandoned the defense of the city. They were only following orders. But he wasn’t inclined to feel kindly toward men and women who’d left their families to the mercy of an enemy army.
Hendres remained silent. They’d had this discussion several times, and she was obviously conflicted regarding her loyalty to the Lady Chancellor. Loyalty was meant to come unquestioning to a Blackhat. This war made things … complicated.
Michel waved the thought away. “But we’re here to take care of those families,” he said, throwing back the thin covers and sitting up. He caught a whiff of himself – and the fens he’d dragged himself through to get home this morning – and almost passed out again. Hendres dashed to the doorway, covering her nose.
“Go wash. Now!”
“I will, I will!” Michel searched for his pants. “You sound like my mother,” he muttered.
“I what?”
“Nothing!” Michel dressed quickly and headed into the hall, ready to go find a public bath. He leaned against the wall, trying not to get dizzy, and wondered where he’d find some breakfast. Food was already becoming a problem, what with the Dynize closing the port, and it would only get worse as the occupation went on.
Hendres joined him, keeping her distance. He opened one eye and caught her staring at him. “What?”
She shifted her feet. “You’re being careful, right?”
“At night? Of course.”
“You’re changing your route out of the city every time?”
He hadn’t been. “I am. I mean, I will tonight. Best not to take any risks with the patrol routes changing.”
There was a long moment of silence, and Hendres continued to stare. “You’re being followed.”
“Excuse me?”
Hendres reached into her breast pocket and produced an envelope. It was sealed with wax. “A Palo kid was waiting outside the building this morning. He handed me this, and said to give it to you.”
“By name?” Michel asked, his heart jumping into his throat. He had been careful – very careful – every time he returned to the safe house. There was no way he was followed.
“By name,” Hendres confirmed, watching his face intently.
Michel took the envelope and broke the seal. He was fully awake now, like he’d downed six cups of iced coffee, and he bit his lip as he read the note. It was just an address, followed by a time. Two o’clock. At the bottom was a single letter “T.” Michel took a deep breath to calm himself.
“Are we found?” Hendres asked.
“We’re fine,” Michel responded. “What time did you say it was?”
“A little past one.”
His chest feeling tight, Michel headed down the hall. “I’ve got to go,” he called over his shoulder. “If I’m not back in a couple hours, you should leave the city.”
“Do you need backup?” Hendres asked, a note of concern in her voice.
“Wouldn’t help!” Michel reached the street, looking for a hackney cab, then remembered they were few and far between since the occupation. He shaded his eyes against the hot afternoon sun, pulled his collar up, and went to see Taniel.
Michel crossed the city on foot. With no functional government to pay the pig keepers or the sweepers, the gutters overflowed with shit and trash. Every third person seemed to be a Dynize soldier, while the citizens who would not – or could not – flee with Lady Flint’s army went about their days with eyes cast toward the ground, fear writ plain on their faces. The entire city felt subdued.
Rubble spilled into the street, and whole blocks had burned down in the fires caused by rioters and shelling. Only a concerted effort by volunteer fire brigades had kept the entire city from going up in smoke, though there were places where the smell of soot was so thick no one dared go out without a handkerchief over their face.
Michel lowered his eyes and tipped his hat to every passing Dynize patrol. The strangely armored soldiers rarely took an interest in one man, and moved through the city as a show of force, rather than any real policing action. He was able to reach Greenfire Depths without incident and he rounded the rim of the great old quarry, eyeing the smoke that still rose from the charred remains of the slum.
Over half the tenements in the Depths had been destroyed by fire. Surviving Palo huddled in the few open spaces at the bottom of the quarry, some even spilling out on the rim. Rumors swirled about desperate Palo looting the homes and businesses of the people who had fled, and Michel could not find the energy to be surprised – or to blame them.
These were not times, he decided, that he would judge any man for acting in fear.
Around the northern rim of the Depths, he reached the address indicated in the note. Instead of finding the Hotel Henria – which had stood for over a hundred years and was ancient by the standards of the young country – he found only its charred stone foundation.
Michel passed the blackened stone, confused, and wondered if perhaps he’d read the address wrong. There was barely anything left of the place, and the little passing traffic paid it no mind. No one had any time for a burned relic.
He checked the note in his pocket, then glanced at his watch. Five minutes after two. And yes, this was the right address. Perhaps, he decided, the note had been delivered a couple of weeks late? This kind of communication was not always reliable.
He hid in the shadows of the ruin while a squad of Dynize soldiers marched past, their breastplates gleaming in the sun, colorful feathers hanging from their shouldered muskets. Once they’d gone, he decided to have one quick look around before heading back to the safe house.
He’d only climbed onto the lowest of the foundation stones when a figure caught his eye. He let a half smile cross his face and carefully picked his way through the unstable ruin to where the former southern wall of the hotel perched on the very edge of Greenfire Depths.
A man sat on the burned-out foundation, the back of an expensive suit pressed carelessly against bricks blackened by smoke and soot. He was tall, worn but handsome, with hawkish features and striking blue-gray eyes. His black hair was hidden beneath a top hat, and one leg dangled carelessly off the two-hundred-foot drop into the quarry. He held a weathered old sketchbook in one hand and a bit of charcoal in the other, and as Michel approached, he could see a rather good rendition of the Depths.
The man was fair-skinned, but the hand clutching the charcoal was a bright red, the skin hairless and smooth like a child’s.
“I didn’t know you still kept a sketchbook,” Michel said.
Taniel Two-shot, the Red Hand terror of the Fatrastan frontier, squinted down into the fire-ravaged slums of the Depths and made a few quick marks in his sketchbook before flipping it closed and stowing it in a leather valise. He pulled a glove over his right hand, then picked up a silver-headed cane and pointed it at Michel. “You’re late.” He crinkled his nose. “And you smell.”