So he hired a grubby-looking closed carriage pulled by two underweight horses and rode it north, into the very district Sandis had been mapping out earlier. He hopped off, wound around some tightly knit buildings and storage sheds to the checkpoint: another manhole cover. Lifted it, but there was nothing, not even a string to denote a message had been there and fallen away. He usually checked these things once a week; he was behind schedule.
Trying not to dwell on another failure, Rone walked in the wrong direction toward the nearest market, which was bustling with morning activity. He stuck to the outskirts of the booths and shops until he found a distributor heading east with a half-empty wagon. He jogged to catch up to it, then carefully hoisted himself onto the back so the drivers wouldn’t feel the wagon shake. Fortunately, they didn’t look back. Rone made it most of the way to his last location before a street rat tried to hitch a free ride next to him. The drivers felt that one, noticed them, and yelled at them to get off. Rone did so and hurried down the first offshoot road he found, letting himself get lost in the tangles of yet more low-income housing before winding his way back to a main street. Rone didn’t feel like he was being followed, and nothing looked suspicious when he glanced over his shoulder, but one could never be too careful.
His destination was a run-down restaurant that nevertheless managed to stay in business year after year, despite its fallen shutters and obvious rat problem. The poor couldn’t afford to care. Rone shook his head as he wrapped around to the back of the restaurant, toward some underway construction. What were they fitting into the tiny lot back here? More housing? More storage? Could this city really get any denser?
Chewing on the inside of his lip, Rone put his back to the restaurant, checked for watching eyes, then reached into a sagging eave. Dirt left by the rain smudged his fingers, and— His breath hitched.
A note.
He pulled it free. Resisted the urge to read it then and there, and palmed the thing, walking too quickly to be casual through windy backroads. He passed a mother switching her whining son and turned the corner, where he sat on the porch of a tall but narrow apartment building. He unfolded the note. The paper was thick and white—someone with money to spare had left it.
Mr. Verlad, I have a proposition for you that I think you’ll find intriguing. Meet me at your soonest possible convenience, day or night. It doesn’t matter to me.
Following the tight script was lettered nonsense, but Rone was familiar with the code. It couldn’t be too obvious, else a lucky passerby might turn the note in to the scarlets for a reward.
The address wasn’t close. Not as far as it could be in a city this size, but not close. Shoving the note into his pocket, next to the amarinth, Rone hunted for a decent drainpipe and climbed.
Miraculously, his body didn’t feel sore anymore.
The address did not take him to a residence, but a small office space that was a single story tall. It was wedged between a much larger building and a set of lavish flats. That gave him courage. He usually didn’t meet his clients in the light of day, and only sometimes did he dare to do so with his face uncovered.
He walked in. The place was simple and clean, though the architecture and style were outdated. There was actually a thriving plant in the back corner, near a narrow desk where a secretary sat, her hair pulled into a wide bun and a pair of black spectacles balanced on her nose. Her clothing was fine, and she even wore rouge and lipstick. She was paid well, then.
She looked up and studied Rone. Possibly smelled him, though she didn’t make a face. “There are no appointments booked this week. Might I assume you found the note?”
Rone simply nodded.
The secretary stood and gestured to a door behind her. “Down this way, Mr. Verlad. Follow the scent of cigar smoke.”
Rone opened the door and found a dark, narrow set of stairs ahead of him. Thirteen in all. He reached the basement, which was cold and smelled like mildew. He had a feeling this place was a temporary holding for this client.
The cigar smoke wasn’t hard to detect; it was spicy and full, richer than what was usually smoked in taverns and bars. Rone followed its trail on silent feet, clutching the amarinth. One client who’d hired him had done so to ruin his life; he might need to fight his way out.
But he needed the money.
Two bright lamps lit the room. It had two simple chairs and a desk piled with ledgers and paperwork. An apple core sat on the corner.
The man behind the desk had thinning brown hair receding from his forehead, a large nose, and wide-set eyes. His clothes were simple but well tailored, his collar stiff. He wasn’t thin, which meant he ate well. The amount of wrinkles on his face—especially his forehead—put him in his sixties.
He puffed out a cloud of smoke and looked up from his work, completely unsurprised, despite Rone’s near-perfect silence. “You’re quick,” he said, a slight rasp to his baritone.
“Your location coincided with my schedule,” he lied. His hood was still up, and his hands weighed down his pockets, one still clasping the amarinth. Rone didn’t lean on the door frame, but stood tall and imposing.
The man gestured to a chair. “Do take a seat, Engel. I have something that might interest you.”
“I prefer to stand, Mr. . . . ?”
“My name is not important.”
Rone frowned. “And yet you know mine.”
The man barked a laugh. “Do you expect me to believe that you are stupid enough to use your real name, let alone that a name such as Engel Verlad really exists? What hopeful mother would name her son after angels and truths?”
Rone didn’t let his irritation show, but his fingers twitched in his pockets. He remained standing. “Tell me your proposition.”
The man pushed his chair back a fraction and set his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers. “It’s a transportation job. And simple, for you, since you already have the item.”
Rone stiffened, the golden ribbons of the amarinth pinching his hand.
“Her name is Sandis Gwenwig.”
Rone didn’t have a chance to hide the surprise on his face, but he killed it quickly. Breathed deeply to calm his pulse and voice. “I am acquainted with the vessel.”
His spine itched.
The man made a knowing sound. “Then you may be acquainted with her owners.”
Rone let himself glower. Who was this man? He didn’t look like a grafter, yet he knew about Sandis. Had Kazen hired him? Galt? Someone else?
The man continued when Rone didn’t reply. “I’m willing to offer you ten thousand kol to deliver her to these coordinates tomorrow night.” He pulled a folded paper from his pocket and slid it across the desk.
Rone set his jaw, though his pulse jumped at the number. Ten thousand? Would that be enough to bribe his mother out of Gerech? It had to be. His mother’s salvation was sitting on the other side of that desk.
His eyes dropped to the paper. Sandis. He couldn’t. He couldn’t wrap her up like some trophy and drop her off to the men she’d been running from this whole time. The men who had taken her freedom. And this Kolosos thing . . . If she was right about that, it wouldn’t just affect her.
No, he couldn’t do that to her.
Her smile from that morning burned in his thoughts. She’d been so happy to see him. So excited to start looking for her great-uncle again. So . . . hopeful.
There had to be another way. Another job. Something would come up.
The ball in his gut eddied, printing the name of his mother into his stomach lining.
He shook his head, repeated his affirmation out loud, “No,” and started to turn.
“I’m not finished with you, Verlad.”
He paused. Sized up the man. He could take him out easily. Hurt him easily. What did he know, and how could Rone use it against him?
What was his connection to Kazen?
“I had a feeling you wouldn’t be swayed. I’m prepared to raise the price.”
Rone narrowed his eyes. “What’s your motivation? You’re no grafter.”
The man frowned. “My reason is my own. For a man in your line of work, you certainly ask a lot of questions.”
Rone’s chest tightened. “No,” he repeated.
He’d made it one step past the door frame when the man said, “Your mother is in Gerech, is she not?”
Rone snarled. “You keep your nose out of it unless you want me to rip—”