Cartilage crunched and the man collapsed backward.
The other seven let out hoarse shouts of outrage and rushed him. Only three of them slammed into the invisible barrier at full tilt and staggered back in shock.
Reaching down, Scorio raked a line of chalk down his left, sealing off two other men, and then exploded upward and into the remaining three, tackling the man in the center about the waist and lifting him clear off the ground. The man roared in anger, slammed an elbow down onto Scorio’s back, then cried out as they crashed into the wall.
Scorio dropped the man, caught hold of his robes as he landed on his feet, and spun, hurling him into the other two.
And came right after, fists swinging, teeth bared, practically growling as he tumbled into them, bludgeoning jaws and elbowing them across the throat. The other five were losing precious seconds as they explored the invisible barrier before them, but then one found the edge and let out a shout.
Scorio took a punch to the ear, stepped away, swayed back from a clumsy haymaker, then clobbered his opponent with a hasty punch to the mouth. Lips split, the man reeled, then Scorio saw three men charging at him from the side, coming at him in a line.
He tore out the iron rod, summoned his Igneous Heart as he backed away, and desperately swept just a fraction of the thick, cloying black clouds into it.
The script flared and the rod stuck, frozen in mid-air.
The lead man crashed into it, hitting the bar with his sternum. The others piled in behind, all of them shouting in alarm as they fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.
A punch glanced off Scorio’s shoulder and then a staff cracked across his back. Raising his arms, Scorio wheeled about, saw the staff swinging right at his head. He pressed his arm tight to the side of his face, bicep bulging over his ear, and took the blow full on. His head rocked over, but his arm absorbed the blow, then he caught the staff, pinned it to his ribs, and yanked the man into a thunderous cross that dropped him to the ground.
Everything was happening at once. Men were climbing to their feet, others were backing away warily, some bumping into invisible lines of force, others staring in horrified fascination at the floating steel rod.
Scorio wanted to go after them. His fury was a white, tremulous force that made it impossible for him to catch his breath. He wanted to stomp each of them down to the ground, to hear bones break, to redress the imbalanced scales of justice with their pain.
Instead, he rose out of his combat crouch, tossed aside the staff, and collected the rod. “What are your names? I want to make sure Dola knows who waylaid me.”
The men froze.
“You’re… you’re meeting with Dola?” The leader with the white stripe of hair was picking himself back up, hand pressed to his bleeding nose.
Scorio made no response.
The one-eyed man glanced nervously at his companions, then limped aside. “Damn it. We didn’t know. You should have said as much. Double’s straight ahead. Two more blocks. Stairs leading down to a lower landing, red door. You’ll see it right enough.”
Scorio’s smile was cold, a thin veneer of courtesy over his still raging desire to throw himself at the men. “Thanks. And your name?”
The man’s smile didn’t touch his one eye. “No need for formalities. I’m, ah, just an altruistic local, doing his civic duty.”
“Right you are,” said Scorio, and stepped through the sparse crowd and out the far side. He didn’t look back, didn’t walk quickly. Just strode along as before, calm and composed, for all that his heart was pounding and his knuckles stinging.
The entrance to the Double was just as the altruistic local had described. A flight of stairs leading down to a basement level, a slender crimson door almost innocuous in the deep trench.
There was nobody around, so Scorio walked down, hesitated, then simply pushed the door open.
Within was a long, narrow room, rays of bloody bronze light filtering in through the shuttered slats that ran down the length of the wall high up by the ceiling. The heavily waxed bar gleamed. A low murmur of conversation paused as a dozen patrons turned to examine him, most puffing on arched pipes, then turned away as he closed the door.
Scorio stepped up to the bar. Candles sunken deep within thick glass holders caused pools of green light to shimmer across its top, and a line of upside-down clay mugs was set along its length.
An older woman with long, gray hair pushed away from a conversation and walked over, her expression skeptical. She wore mustard-colored robes that were sufficiently open at the front to reveal an intricate tattoo on her chest, and she had a powerful frame to go with her relaxed confidence.
“Think you’re in the wrong place,” she said.
“I’m here to meet with Dola. She’s expecting me at the start of Second Clay.”
“Second Clay, is it?” Mild interest quickened her expression, her brows lowering as she looked him up and down. “You’re early. But then again, Dola’s already here. Let me go check out your story. Name?”
“Scorio. Feiyan set this up.”
“Feiyan?” There was obvious recognition at the name. “Well, that’s something. Hold on.”
She strode back down the length of the bar, unhurried, out and around the far end to dip through the curtain of beads.
Scorio stood at his ease, not looking around, arms crossed, aware of the covert glances being directed his way. His back ached. His knuckles were raw. But he felt alive, refreshed because of the fight, purposeful and deliberate. Anyone who wanted to was more than welcome to step over and cause problems.
Soon enough the bartender emerged, caught his eye, and gave a sharp nod back over her shoulder.
Beyond the beads was a small, comfortable room, windowless and lit by three lanterns with their wicks trimmed short, each shedding a soft, roseate glow. The three walls featured deeply recessed alcoves, each with its own broad, cushioned bench, and a circular table in the center boasted three ornate water pipes, their intricately painted surfaces making them objects of art.
A subtle, honeyed incense lingered in the air, with a musky scent beneath that. Scorio stood in the doorway, but though each alcove featured a small group of guests, he had no difficulty picking out Dola.
She stood out even amongst this tough crew like a battle-ax amongst paring knives. Older, large, with powerful sloping shoulders and a trim waist, she looked hard enough to have taken on the entire gang that had challenged Scorio outside. Her skin was near-black, her ivory hair shorn all the way around except the very top, from which slender braids flowed back and down about her shoulders, nearly to her waist. Painted lips, slender, arching brows, and strong, striking features all made her appear to have twice the personality of anyone else present, four times the presence, and infinitely more command.
“Scorio,” she said, voice rich and full, not a question.
He stepped up to her alcove. A young man, bare-chested, his hair spiked and with a ring through one nostril, slid off the cushioned bench and faded away into the depths of the room.
“Dola.” Was he missing an honorific? The direct approach seemed best.
She took her time eyeing him up and down, her expression inscrutable. Finally, “Feiyan says you need work. Why should I give it to you?”
“Why not? I’m strong, willing, and without any loyalty to the Houses.”
“All good prerequisites, but that also describes half the fools that enter the Double. Do better.”
Had Feiyan told her he was a Great Soul? Was she fishing for a confession? He decided not to give one. “Feiyan’s no fool. She vouched for me.”
“She didn’t vouch for you. She simply said you needed work. I respect her, hence this opportunity to impress me. Which you’ve yet to do.”
Scorio nodded, sucking on his teeth. Reveal one of his treasures? Boast about his accomplishments beneath the ruins?
No. Dola’s gaze was halfway between stern and dismissive. He got the impression that the more he pleaded, the less impressed she’d be.