“Have you visited her recently? She has a date set.”
Rone’s skeleton turned to ice as the man’s words registered. Puffing on his cigar, the man opened a drawer and pulled out a paper sitting on top of whatever else sat in there. No doubt he’d placed it there to make the moment more dramatic. He read over it. “Mm, yes, the fourteenth. That’s, what, three days from now? It would be immediate, I imagine, but the line for the executioner’s block gets so long at that place, you know. She has to wait her turn, just like everyone else.”
Rone’s fingers trembled. His underarms and hairline began to perspire. “You’re lying.”
The man turned the paper around and held it out so Rone could read it. His mother’s name. Her prisoner number. The signature of the warden. The fourteen, right there in bold, blocky letters.
Three days.
They were going to kill her. The ball in his gut doubled in size. His mom was going to hang for a simple theft. For his simple theft.
Three days.
Rone backed away from the edict like it was fire.
“Give me Sandis, and you’ll get her out.” The man tucked the paper away.
Rone grabbed a handful of hair. Time was up. He couldn’t wait any longer. His free hand drifted to his pocket.
The amarinth.
The time had come. He would sell it; he had to. Even so, he couldn’t ignore that it wouldn’t solve all his problems. The grafters . . . the grafters would still be after him. After Sandis. After his mother. Could he do that to her? Could he pull her into a life of squalor and crime, where Kazen, his lackeys, or his vessels could kill her at any moment?
But if he forfeited Sandis, everything would return to the way it had been. There would be no more running. No more fear.
His stomach cramped at the thought. Sandis’s smile radiated behind his eyelids.
The man tapped his cigar on the side of an ashtray. “Fifteen thousand, and papers out of Kolingrad. For you and your mother.”
Rone stopped breathing.
Papers. Out of Kolingrad.
The man likely offered the papers as a further selling point—emigration documentation sold for incredible prices in the underground. Rone could sell a single set and retire. It was that hard to leave this miserable place. People surrendered their entire life earnings just to see the other side of those mountains.
This man could hardly know it, but Rone wanted emigration papers more than anything else.
He turned back. Licked his teeth behind his lips. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “And I’m to believe you have access to such things?”
“I do.” He spoke with such confidence. “Believe me, Engel, I am a trustworthy man. But you won’t receive any of your rewards until the vessel is delivered. I won’t have you toting her to Godobia and running away from us.”
Rone’s stomach sank to his knees. Shivers coursed up and down his limbs. Two sets of emigration papers. Fifteen thousand . . . that would be enough to get his mother out of prison, both of them out of Kolingrad, and for them to start a new life in the south. A new, better life, without the crowds and the pollution and the constant reminders that they’d been abandoned by one of the country’s most powerful men.
But Sandis— “Kazen won’t let you put a hole in me.”
She’d said it herself. He wouldn’t hurt her, right? He wanted Ireth back. Sandis was a strong vessel—God’s tower, she could summon on herself. She was valuable. Fifteen thousand and two sets of emigration documents valuable.
She’d always have clothing and food. She wouldn’t have to hide anymore. And this Kolosos she talked about . . . the Angelic hadn’t been concerned about it. He of all people should know. If he wasn’t concerned, then maybe there was no cause to be.
The man scratched the side of his nose. “Your dear mother will be—”
“Shut up.” His finger twitched. He balled his hands into fists.
Sandis’s smile. Her thank-yous, her skin— He’d done his part, hadn’t he? And his mother . . . his mother’s imprisonment was his fault. He owed this to her! If he didn’t do something, she was going to die. The parent who hadn’t abandoned him, who had never given up on him, would die. There was no other way to get her out, to get her to safety.
Rone’s mind spun for another solution, but he couldn’t see one. The numbers didn’t add up. The money didn’t add up. Even if they miraculously found Talbur Gwenwig today, he didn’t know the man would have the money, let alone if he’d be willing to lend it. And the amarinth—there wasn’t enough time to find a good buyer, to prove the thing’s usefulness, to clear the withdrawals from the bank . . . and even if he could miraculously make it all work, then what? They’d still be trapped in this horrid city, Rone without work and Ernst Renad always lurking in the shadows, seeking revenge.
Releasing the amarinth, Rone reached forward. Took the folded paper with the designated address scrawled on it. He knew the place. A few miles from where Sandis had incinerated half a dozen men.
She was dangerous . . . She couldn’t ever truly be free, not with those marks permanently marring her skin. What other solution was there, logically speaking? She’d be caught eventually, whether by the grafters, the police, or the priests. Maybe it was safest for her to go back to the underground lair. Better for her.
“Engel.” The man’s voice was firm, impatient.
Rone crumpled the paper in his fist. Ground his teeth until they squeaked. Took in a deep breath. Met the man’s eyes.
“She won’t be hurt?”
The man offered a simple nod.
“I’ll do it.”
Chapter 20
“Whip your hand against the inside of my forearm—yes, like that—then turn your wrist over and grab me.”
Sandis stood off-center in the secret room in Arnae Kurtz’s sizeable flat, her back to the shelves. Arnae had his arm extended toward her, as if he meant to grab her but had stopped before reaching her neck. Sandis tried to imagine his fingers were Kazen’s, long and pale, crooked like spider legs. His veins raised and half-hidden by a black sleeve.
I will be stronger than you.
She lifted her arm, too, then twisted it around to grab his.
“Yes, good. Now pull it down and do what I showed you before. Here.” He pointed to the space where his neck met his shoulder.
Sandis pulled Arnae’s wrist toward her hip and brought her other hand forward, flat, and aimed for his neck. She hit him, but not hard. He was not her enemy.
Arnae pulled back and smiled. “Yes, just like that. But twenty times faster and fifty times harder.”
Sandis gave him a bashful smile. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ha!” the seugrat master barked. “You couldn’t if you wanted to, child.”
She didn’t correct him on that point, merely nodded and raised her fists. “All right, again.”
Arnae reached for her, and Sandis repeated the motions, pushing his hand away and striking hers gently against his neck. She grinned. This felt like something that might work in real life. After she had cleaned the flat and helped cook dinner, Arnae had offered to teach her some self-defense, since Rone was out late again.
“One more time,” Arnae said, but as he reached for her, the secret door opened and let in a burst of smoky air. Sandis’s heart thumped at the same time relief fountained to her shoulders and down her arms. Rone was hale and whole. She was sure half the reason Arnae was teaching her was to distract her.
She hurried to the end of the hall at the same time Rone reached it. The sallow look on his face wasn’t good. “No luck?”
He blinked, as if noticing her for the first time. “What? No. I mean, yes.”
But his expression didn’t match his words. His eyes were dull, his shoulders droopy. “You got work?”
“Yeah. In a couple of days. It will . . . We’ll be taken care of.”
There was no excitement in his voice. No hope. Sandis hugged herself, suddenly cold. “And your mother?”
His brow twitched. “Yes. I think it will help her, too.”