“You know Oslo?” I ask.
“Do I know Oslo? Ha! Your broker has often served as an intermediary between the Ophion Guild and the Syndicate. If you had betrayed him, well, that would have been the end of Ephraim ti Horn. But instead, treasure awaits. You see, the master of thieves”—he touches his black jacket where his heart allegedly beats—“happens to be in need of a thief of chaos. And who better than one recommended by Mr. Oslo and tested by me? There is something of particular significance I would like to acquire. This, my dear Gray, was the final part of your audition. And congratulations. You passed with flying colors.”
I blink up at the madman. “The sword. You had me steal the sword…from you?”
As an answer, a gleaming smile splits the man’s face.
I sit there, my body shivering from the adrenaline leaving the system, still not entirely sure he’s not going to snatch my hand and saw it off. “You’re a special kind of asshole,” I mutter.
“You’ve clearly never met the other Royals.” He touches his chest in offense. “I’m the tender one.”
“The Syndicate has enough thieves,” I say. “Why do you need me?”
“Are any as good as you?” he asks, attempting flattery.
“Three, at least. The Figment, Zendric…” I shake my head, wishing I had taken Holiday up on the job offer. “I told you, citizen. I don’t mess with the Syndicate. You boys play too hard. Whatever job you want me to do, use your men.” I glance at his thorns and Gorgo in particular. “I don’t wear a collar.”
“We all wear collars,” the Duke says, tapping his forehead where the invisible crown lies dormant. “Some are more comfortable than others. And now it’s your turn, Mr. Horn.” He pulls something from his pocket and sets it on the table. They call it the Queen’s Kiss. A black iron rose that can bribe Watchmen, open doors, and intimidate even senators of the Republic. It is the warrant of the Syndicate’s ruler, and those few dark creatures who carry it do so at her bidding.
“This is not a request. The debt is still owed. By you, the Obsidian, the Green, and the Red,” he says quietly. “Now, I assume a man with your reputation, with your…history, is prone to vendettas. I warn you against thinking of this as an onus set upon your shoulders, and instead counsel you to look at it as the greatest opportunity of your lifetime.” He points out the window with his cane. “You have a chance to become more than a thief. With the Syndicate, you can ascend. You can rule. Serve me well and this world can become your playground.”
His silken words are lost on me. I don’t want to ascend. Could give a shit about their games or their ridiculous delusions of grandeur—they’re just another gang with better than average organization and accounting. Sooner or later, they all eat themselves. But even though I might stand on a ledge and think about jumping, that doesn’t mean I want to get bonesawed to death. That’s what will happen if I say no. Or he’ll go for my team first. And I’ll hear the screams all over again. I think of Volga standing there in the rain looking like a lost puppy.
“I’ll do it,” I mutter. “Now, what’s the prize?”
The Duke of Hands laughs merrily. “Glad you asked! My darling, we’re stealing the most valuable thing in all the worlds.”
MY ASSOCIATES STARE AT the Queen’s Kiss on my glass coffee table. They have not moved since I set it down. I examine the drooping clock in the painting on the wall. One of my favorite Dalís. With the original lost or destroyed, even a forgery of La persistencia de la memoria is a treasure. This one I stole from a robber-baron Silver in the Mass. Time stands as still in the room as in the painting.
“This is a lark, isn’t it? Another one of your games, Eph,” Cyra finally says, waving her hands in her animated way.
Dano chuckles to himself from his place on the formofabric couch next to me. He’s sprawled on it like a drunk cat, leg over the armrest. Overcompensating his slickness like we all don’t know how insecure he is about being fifty kilos soaking wet. He smothers his spent burner in the coffee-cup-turned-ashtray on his stomach and lights another. The smoke slithers into the air, stained green and purple by the AI lover advertisements that writhe out the window on the building adjacent mine.
Cyra sneers at him. “Is this a joke to you too?”
“Lass, life’s a joke,” Dano whispers as smoke comes out his nostrils.
“Wonderful. It’s all a joke. And we’re the damn punchline.” Cyra stares at the untouched vodka lemon I poured her, trying to come to grips with the tale of my night with the Duke. I want her to drink it. Shit, drink four of them, woman. She’s a damn stress when she’s sober, and only mildly tolerable when inebriated.
It’s the late hours of the evening, dark cycle. A sluggish late summer rain falls on Hyperion. And I’m stuck between a madman with a buzzsaw and a job that will certainly kill me. I feel a sense of resignation. This is the end of the line. What the Syndicate asks is impossible. This business is so far past their paygrade I thought the Duke was joking.
We’re going to die. But dying pure and quick on a job is better than dying slow at their hands. Now, just have to convince my crew. If I don’t, anyone who doesn’t play along will have an octopus in their mouth and their body in a gutter by morning.
“This is your shit, Eph,” Cyra says. “They came to you. So, fine. You take the contract. I’m not interested. Never wanted to tangle with those psychos. If you’re smart, you’ll realize you shouldn’t get involved in this shit either. This is big. Too big.”
“You are not out,” Volga says without any malice. “Ephraim needs our help. He helped us. You are in.”
“Slag that.”
“Yeah, I’m with the grass ass for once,” drawls Dano, burner dangling from the corner of his mouth. “This is manic, and not in a sexy way.”
Volga leans forward. Cyra involuntarily flinches. “Dano, you would be in Whitehold or dead if it weren’t for this man. Cyra, where would you be if Ephraim did not pay your debt to that data shark? I would still be on Earth, loading boxes and collecting loans from sad men so I could eat.” I watch her with an unfamiliar warmth going through me. I hurt her outside the bar, but still she has nothing but love for me. Why? “We will help him because he helped us.”
Dano claps his hands. “Bloodydamn fine speech.”
“Cut the yapping, you mutant,” Cyra sneers at Volga. “No one owes anyone anything here.”
“They know who you are, Cyra. They know who we all are,” I say into my Pernod. It’s a drink from the days back when I used to care, emerald green with the taste of licorice. Trigg loved them. I knocked back a pair while waiting for my team to arrive, watching the news recycle clips from the Reaper’s dismantlement at the hands of the Vox Populi. Lionheart couldn’t do anything to stop it. Made me feel warm and fuzzy, seeing the king and queen get caught with their pants down.
“They want my team. It wasn’t a request.”