Well, her smoke.
The girl sucked the last life from the cigarillo, dropped it at her feet, and crushed it under heel. And reaching into her sleeve, she drew out a long stiletto, carved of what might’ve been gravebone. Daniio’s hackles went up along with his hands, and he slipped from nervous to downright terrified. The girl stepped closer as he shrank back against the wall. And reaching into her belt, she pulled out a single glass ball, smooth and small and perfectly white.
“What’s that?” Daniio asked.
“Swoon. I had a bag half-full of these, yesterturn. Now I’ve got one left.”
“W-where’s the rest of them?”
“I dissolved them in the broth you cooked for evemeal.”
Daniio risked a look over his shoulder, back at the pub. Quiet as tombs.
“Now, here’s our problem,” the girl said. “You were supposed to serve evemeal to the garrison tower right after you served it here. And after that, you were supposed to wander back here and find every soldier under your roof face down in their broth.”
“… You put them to sleep?”
The girl looked to her knife. Back to Daniio’s eyes.
“Not for long.”
Daniio tried to speak and found his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“But since you don’t serve evemeal over there anymore, I’m going to need a distraction,” the girl said. “So you may want to head upstairs and grab anything of value you might keep in your … no doubt fine establishment.”
Daniio pried his tongue loose.
“Why?” he managed.
She held out his flintbox on an open palm. Daniio’s slow eye caught on before the rest of him did, growing considerably wider. His words emerged as a croak.
“O, no …”
“If I live, I’ll see the Red Church compensates you for your losses. If not …” The girl shrugged, gifted him a wry smile. “Well, you’ve got my apologies.”
She stared at Daniio, sparking the flintbox in her hand.
“Best hurry, now. Seconds won’t be the only thing burning in a moment.”
The goldwine in Daniio’s cellars wasn’t what you’d call the finest vintage. Truthfully, it was closer to paint thinner than whiskey. Unbeknownst to any of his customers, Daniio used it to clean the pots once a year and they always came up sparkling. But, wonderful thing about spirits, no matter how low-rent the production or gods-awful the taste.
They burn beautifully.
Smoke was already rising from the Old Imperial’s roof as Mia reached the garrison tower, sneaking around back of the stables and up to the rear wall. The tower rose thirty feet high, and there were no windows on the upper levels—she was almost certain that’s where the Ministry and Lord Cassius would be. She supposed they were in the same state they’d been in during the journey from the Mountain, gagged and chained up tight, but she needed to see for sure. She was horribly outnumbered, and didn’t know the lay of the land. Burning most of Remus’s troops alive to cause a distraction had seemed a good way to kill two birds with one stone.
Or sixty, as the case may be.
Truthfully, she’d not even known if the Swoon would dissolve in Daniio’s broth, but giving it a try seemed a better idea than just marching into the Imperial and flinging handfuls of wyrdglass around. The stink of burning flesh hung heavy on the winds, smoke rising in a twisting column to the sunsburned sky, but if she felt any guilt about the fate she’d gifted the Luminatii, it was quickly quashed at the thought of Tric and the others who’d died in the Mountain’s belly.
She’d scaled halfway up the watchtower wall when the legionary atop it sounded the alarm, banging on a heavy brass bell and roaring, “Fire! Fire!” Last Hope’s townsfolk burst from their doors, Centurion Garibaldi stumbled into the street and cursed, and Mia slipped up over the battlements and slit the lookout’s throat, ear to bloody ear.
Throwing on her shadows, she flipped the trapdoor in the floor open before his body had hit the floor. Dropping onto the upper level, she found bunk beds, wardrobes, and a single, groggy legionary rising from his mattress to see what the fuss was about. Her gladius put him back to bed, and she covered his face with bloody blankets, whispering a prayer to Niah. Slipping down the stairs onto the level below, she breathed a soft curse to find it empty, along with the common room beneath. Peering through the ground-floor windows, she could see four legionaries posted outside the front door—Remus and Garibaldi and the rest seemed to be down at the Imperial. With only one place left to look, Mia opened the cellar door and stole down into the dark.
Two arkemical globes cast a thin glow across wine barrels and shelves, wooden pillars and huddled figures. Three Luminatii were sitting about an upturned crate, grousing on a deck of cards. All three looked up as she entered. It was far too dark to see beneath her cloak down here, so she threw it aside, tossed one of her few remaining globes of onyx wyrdglass. Black smoke burst in the center of the card table, beggars and brews flying, Mia dropping down the stairs with her swords drawn, lashing out at the nearest man without a whisper.
Though the light was dim, she could still feel their shadows, reaching out and fixing their boots to the floor, one by one. The lead soldier fought hard despite his surprise, cursing her for a heretic, promising she’d meet her dark mother soon. But for all his bluster, he fell with her sword in his belly, clutching his punctured chain mail and calling for his own ma, his blood red on the stone. Mia hurled a fistful of throwing knives at the second man, two blades striking home and sending him to the floor. The third tried to run, tugging at his boots and fumbling with the buckles as she rose up behind him and buried her sword between his ribs, the blade rupturing his mail shirt and punching out through his chest. He fell without a sound, eyes open and accusing.
Mia pushed them closed with another whispered prayer.
Through the swirling smoke, the stink of blood, she saw them. Seven figures, trussed up in a corner. Shahiid Aalea, bound and gagged. Spiderkiller, bruised and unconscious. Solis, beaten to within an inch of his life, his face a mass of purple welts. Hush, Mouser, and Drusilla, all awake, mouths gagged. And at the last, Cassius, dark eyes glowering, filled with pain. The Black Prince. Lord of Blades. Looking at him, Mia felt that same queasy sensation she’d felt when they’d met in the past. Sickness. Vertigo. Fear. It was almost painful. A dark shape coalesced beside him, black fangs bared in a snarl.
Eclipse.
The shadowwolf stepped toward Mia, hackles raised. Mister Kindly puffed up in her shadow, yowling and spitting. The creatures stared each other down as Mia hissed.
“Put it back in your pants, the pair of you.”
“…FOOL CHILD, I WEAR NO PANTS …”
“… o, you’d be the brains of the outfit, then …”
“Mister Kindly, enough.”
The not-cat fell into a sullen silence, and a glance from Lord Cassius was enough to make Eclipse do the same. Crouching beside the Ministry, Mia cut away Mother Drusilla’s gag, pulled it from the old woman’s mouth.
“Acolyte Mia,” she whispered. “A pleasant … surprise indeed.”
Mia set about cutting away Mouser and Aalea’s gags, and, lastly, Lord Cassius. The man looked like he’d been used as a training dummy, lips swollen, eyes blackened, cheek split. But even with his gag removed, the Lord of Blades said nothing at all.
Mia tried to ignore the sickness swelling in the man’s presence, the thunder of her heart against her ribs. She looked over the manacles, the ropes binding each, started sawing at Cassius’s bonds with her gravebone blade.
“I have to get you out of here,” Mia whispered. “I’ve distracted them, but not for long. Can you walk? Better yet, run?”
“The Luminatii obviously intended to bring us in alive,” Drusilla wheezed. “But Solis is in a state, and after Mouser slipped his bonds yesterturn, the good justicus ensured he’d be running nowhere for a while.”