She fired, and it dropped. Another shadow; Sandis shifted to the left and fired again, but missed. These rifles only held four shots, so she took Rone’s and cranked the lever, hearing the double click as the bullet entered its chamber.
It had been four years, but she still knew these firearms like she did her own script.
Rone swept away again to punch, kick, whatever he did with the lingering grafters. Three of them were down, though Ravis could come back at any time.
A window broke somewhere, the shattering glass piercing her ears like a scream. Something hit the closest machine and made it ring like a heavy gong.
Then Rone was there, grabbing her shoulders. “Run, run, run.” He pulled her onto her feet and dragged her toward the newly shattered window. An exit. He must have remembered she had no shoes, since he scooped her up into his arms before pushing through the frame. A triangle of glass caught on his shirt and tore it.
Sandis gripped her rifle as she became weightless. Her body jerked with Rone’s when he hit the street. He grunted and ran to the end of the factory before setting her down.
A police whistle blew. As far as the oncoming scarlets were concerned, Sandis and Rone were just as guilty as the mobsmen and grafters.
Sticking his fingers into a dip in the cobbles, Rone opened a manhole.
“Hold your breath,” he said.
Sandis gripped the gun in her hands. She finally had one, with three shots left. The water would ruin it.
“Sandis!”
Gripping the barrel, Sandis jumped into the darkness.
She lost the rifle in the current.
Chapter 17
Rone set a tray of bread, cheese, and apples on the small table in the room he’d rented that morning. It was a pricier establishment, unlike the holes he typically chose—when meeting a woman didn’t escalate into running for his life—but he figured grafters would be less likely to look for them here. With luck, they were still reeling from Rone’s thorough beatings and the holes Sandis had put in them.
Rone dropped into the sole chair in the room—it was a single room, which made it cheaper and all around easier to protect. Sandis popped over to the food and smelled the bread like it was ecstasy in loaf form. Despite her obvious hunger, when she tore off the heel, she offered it first to him.
Rone waved it away.
She frowned. “You’re hungry. Eat it.”
He frowned back, looking at the food clutched in Sandis’s thin, almost elegant fingers. She had a weirdly hopeful look on her face, like a refusal would break her heart. He snatched the bread, still warm from the oven, and took a too-large bite that pressed against his windpipe when he swallowed.
The vast space around the bread in his belly made him realize how long it’d been since he’d eaten, so he took another bite, then a third. The chewing started a headache, though the pain was more likely from lack of sleep than anything else. Rone was used to sleeping in, not snoozing on the run.
After he swallowed again, he said, “I’m going to Gerech today.”
Sandis perked up, half an apple slice sticking out of her mouth. She crunched down, shoved it against her cheek, and said, “Your mother? Will they let you visit?”
No. “Maybe. I’ve got to see what I can do. Figure out who’s in charge of visitors and what he takes for bribes.” He leaned forward and turned the bread over in his hands. “And get another job. I’m almost out on the money front. This isn’t helping.”
Sandis’s hand paused on the way to a cheese curd.
He shook his head. “Eat. We both need the energy.”
She hesitantly picked up the morsel. Pinched it between her fingers. “Can I help? Can I . . . do . . . something?”
“You can stay here. I’m faster on my own. You’ll be safe.” He stood and moved to the window, peering out from behind its yellow curtains. This was a very yellow establishment, he noticed. A poor attempt at cheer in the cesspool that was Dresberg. “They won’t attack a place of this size. Not in the day, especially. And it should take Kazen a while to regroup his men.”
“He doesn’t need men.”
Rone dropped the curtain and looked at her. She still had that cheese in her hands. But she looked up and smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes, but at least it was a smile.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll stay here. I’ll . . . make the bed. And fold the laundry.”
The laundry was already folded and on the edge of bed, thanks to the in-house maid who gracefully hadn’t asked why it all smelled like fecal water or why Rone had paid her to find them new clothes. Popping the cheese into her mouth, Sandis walked to the bed and pushed the laundry onto the floor. “Yes, I’ll fold it.”
Rone smiled. He couldn’t help it. He tore another piece from the diminishing loaf on the table. “I’ll go now. The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll be back. We’ll figure out something.”
“Thank you.”
Through a mouthful of bread, he said, “Stop thanking me.”
She smiled. A sincere one this time. With that smile and the light coming in through the pleated curtains, she looked like something ethereal. A strong reminder of why Rone had ever approached her in the first place. His thoughts started to turn—they were presently alone and safe, and her skin looked so soft. And she cared about him. She’d said as much, after the mess in the alley. She was an enigma. So different from the occasional woman who warmed his bed only to disappear from his life the next morning. Different, too, from old colleagues and friends like Kurtz. Different from his mother. Very different from his mother.
And while you’re thinking all this, your mother is slowly rotting in prison.
That thought snapped his mind into order. He shook his head, shaking off his desires and questions like dust. Now wasn’t the time. Now was just . . . temporary.
He grabbed his wallet from his bag and slipped out the door without saying goodbye.
It took a long time to get to Gerech Prison. Maybe because it was far away, and this wasteland city was enormous. Maybe because Rone was tired, and his joints felt like they’d aged fifty years overnight. Maybe because, deep down, he knew this mission was going to be fruitless.
He reached the iron bars that caged in the prison clerk. Different from the one he’d spoken to before.
“Paying a visit” was all he said.
The clerk, an older man with a long face, flipped open a heavy book. Rone tried not to notice how many entries had been blacked out in it. “Name?”
“Adalia Comf.”
He turned the sticky pages with aggravating slowness. Dragged the tip of his index finger down one until it settled on his mother’s entry. “She is”—he paused—“oh. Not seeing visitors. Her visit was expended on the warden.”
Rone growled and pulled out his paperwork. “I’m her son. I need to see her.”
Legally, he knew he had no grounds. One visit had been allowed, and he had used it on his meeting with the warden.
The clerk looked over his paperwork. “I’m sorry, but the rights for this prisoner have expired. Where did you get these?”
From a filing clerk who takes low bribes. Rone countered with a question of his own. “How much will it cost to make them viable?”
The clerk pressed his lips together, considering. Ultimately, he shook his head. “Good day, sir.” He closed the book. “Next.”
It wasn’t a surprise, but Rone’s muscles quivered with restrained rage as he stepped away from the window—but not away from the prison. No, he followed the wall under the watch of all those eyes until he almost got to the door. Almost. He didn’t dare bribe guards who were trusted with the actual door.
He stood in front of two men with rifles strung to their belts on one side, sabers on the other, and a thin club in the front. One raised his eyebrow. The other folded his arms.
They were both about Rone’s age. For all he knew, he’d gone to church with them.
Keeping his back to the city, he pulled out his dwindling wad of cash and started counting bills. “Adalia Comf is in sector G for thievery. Getting additional punishment from a rich man. I’d like to see her treated well.”