Sandis landed softly behind him, impressing him with her silence. His old teacher, Arnae Kurtz, would have liked her.
He wanted speed, but slowed down to keep Sandis behind him. She stumbled a few times in those worthless shoes of hers. He took a more looping path southwest, trying to make the jumps easier, and, whenever possible, led Sandis to the roofs where he’d previously stowed boards to ease his journey. So far only the storms had tried to stall their journey. The one nice thing about the wall surrounding the city was it choked out most of the wind.
Black ashes, he hated this place. He and his mother would have left the country a long time ago if the emigration papers didn’t cost a man’s lifetime salary.
They touched down to the street once, then climbed back up a four-story building that obviously made Sandis nervous. Why, Rone didn’t know. Was a grafter, of all people, afraid of heights? The things their kind did . . . But then again, Sandis had been a slave, right? He wondered what sort of slave, then snuffed the line of thought when it got too miserable. Regardless, she was at the bottom of the food chain. He had to remember that.
Ugh. He hated feeling pity. It made him nice.
The tip of the sun inched over the horizon by the time Rone got to where he was going—a large apartment building just inside the smoke ring. Large, because the people who lived here had some money, not because the landlord shoved in as many tenants as the space would allow, as was common with most residential buildings in the area.
Marald Helg’s flat was on the top floor. If he hadn’t moved.
“Stay here.” He pointed at Sandis like she was a dog in training. She glanced around. Sat near the part of the roof that sloped. She’d have to wash those pants again.
Rone withheld a sigh. He checked for his amarinth, despite knowing its magic had not yet refreshed, then lowered himself off the lip of the roof and swung around its eaves to a large window. Kicked in the glass. He didn’t care to be quiet. He was here to make an impression.
“Helg!” he barked, striding through the guest room and into the sitting room, which was empty save for a tweed chair. He marched down the stairs, heading toward the office where he’d made his disastrous deal with Helg. “Wake up, you filthy bastard!”
He heard a low chuckle that made his skin light up like coals. He whirled toward the bedroom and kicked open the door.
Marald Helg sat up in bed, his thinning hair mussed from sleep. Dreary dawn light poured in through a window masked by sheer curtains. The sole other piece of furniture in the room was a three-legged side table. Cheap. There were marks on the wall from where furniture used to be.
Marald Helg coughed, covering his mouth with one hand. When he finished, he licked spittle from his bottom lip.
Rone marched toward him, entertaining a million thoughts about how he’d like to kill him. He’d never killed a man, not directly, but that was a record worth tarnishing.
He raised his hand—
“I’ve been waiting for you, boy.”
The words caught him off guard for a moment. Recovering quickly, Rone grabbed Helg by the collar of his night-robe and lifted the smaller man from his sheets. He threw him onto the floor. Helg had a gauntness to his face that hadn’t been there before. He looked older. His hair was whiter. Rone didn’t care.
“I don’t know how you know her,” Rone spat, stepping toward him like a wolf stalking its prey, “but I’m going to make Gerech look like a resort by the time I’m finished with you.”
Helg laughed. Laughed. Rone bristled and grabbed Helg’s collar again, slamming the man against the wall.
Helg winced, coughed. That made Rone feel minutely better.
“You . . . deserve it,” he choked.
“You deserve this,” Rone countered, and pulled back his fist—
“You want the story, don’t you?”
Rone hesitated.
Helg smiled, which was all the invitation Rone needed to slam his fist into Helg’s mouth. The feeling of teeth ripping from their gums made the sting across his knuckles pleasant. He let Helg fall to the ground and took a step back.
“Why, yes,” Rone sneered. “I’d love a story.”
Helg cradled his mouth. Pushed off the floor so he could sit upright. There was a slight hump in his back. “Do you know . . . who I am?” The man spat out a tooth.
“A backstabber?”
“Marald Steffen.” He moved his hand from his mouth. Blood smeared across his cheek. He waited. For what, Rone didn’t know.
Helg—Steffen—scowled. “You don’t remember me.”
“Obviously.”
Steffen took a deep breath. “Do you recall Fran Errick, then?”
That name rang a bell. Rone mulled for a moment, never changing his stance or his expression. A previous client, he was sure.
“Let me jog your memory, foolish boy.” Steffen licked his lip, which only spread the blood farther. “Fran Errick owns the Errick, Fritz, and Helderschmidt firearm factories. I owned the Graybrick. He hired you to steal plans for a new musket from my property.”
Rone’s eyes narrowed. He remembered this. It had happened about eight months ago.
“You,” Steffen grunted as he clasped at the wall to stand. “You ruined me.”
The words dripped from him like venom.
“I spent every last penny I had to hire you, Engel.” He turned, looking even frailer and older than before, and glared at Rone. The rising sun highlighted his dark eyes. That hard ball of guilt began to churn in Rone’s belly again. “Sent you to the most privileged man in Dresberg. I had you followed, you son of a whore.”
Rone launched forward without thinking to. His hand clasped around Steffen’s neck. Pinned him again to the wall.
Steffen didn’t seem to notice. “I found out who you were. But you’re a sly cur, Rone Comf. Oh, wouldn’t Daddy be proud to learn about you . . . Or does he even care?”
Rone growled. His hand tightened around Steffen’s throat.
The older man wheezed as he spoke. “A sly cur. You’d get away too easily. So I went for her. So simple. I hope”—he tried to swallow—“they kill her.”
Rone slammed his fist into the old man’s eye. He released his throat and then delivered a second punch to his cheekbone. Another to his nose, breaking it. Then his mouth again. Marald Steffen fell to his knees, and Rone spun and landed a hard kick to the side of the man’s head, knocking him over.
Steffen groaned, his eyes closed. His chest still rose and fell.
Rone moved toward him. Pressed the toe of his shoe to Steffen’s throat. A little pressure was all it would take. The bastard deserved it for making business personal. For attacking an innocent rather than Rone himself.
Anger made his arms tremble. Ignited new pain in his bad shoulder. Pain that radiated up his neck and into his skull.
Rone’s sore hands formed fists, which he slammed into the wall after pulling his foot back from the unconscious factory owner.
Damn it. Damn him and all of them to hell.
And yet . . . he couldn’t escape the thought that he was the one who’d done this.
It was his fault. He should have kept records. Should have watched his back. Should have hidden his identity better. Should have, should have, should have.
He needed to get his mother out of Gerech, and this bankrupt bastard wasn’t the way to do it.
Rone dragged himself back up the stairs. Punched another wall and winced at the shock of it. He massaged his knuckles. Pressed his forehead against the same wall.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
“I’m sorry.”
He jumped and turned. Sandis stood at the edge of the hallway. The window behind her was open, and a soft breeze stirred her hair.
Rone let out a single dry chuckle. “You heard that, huh?”
“Part of it.”
Rone rubbed his face. Shook out his raw hands. “Whatever. Let’s figure out your mess.”
“I’m sorry.”
He glared at her. “So you said.”
He climbed his way back to the roof. Hopped to the next one. Started for the third, then forced himself to stop so Sandis could catch up.
He’d said he’d assist her. For now. This side of his problems wasn’t her fault. Just the other side.
He fingered the amarinth. He’d figure this out.
Somehow.
Chapter 8