So he shrugged. “I bet you’ve already made up your mind. If you’re not going to offer me the job, let’s end this.”
She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Oh ho. Ultimatums? A curious interview strategy.”
“Feiyan got you curious. You can tell I’m no fool. Arrogant, maybe. But I’m my own man. If I work for you, I’ll work hard and I’ll work smart. But if you’ve already decided I’m not what you’re looking for, then let’s stop wasting time.”
She pursed her lips, causing deep dimples to appear below her cheeks, though the expression failed to soften her face. “I see your approach. Old robe, cheap sandals, looking like you rolled in a coal pit before you got dressed. You’ve got nothing, and nothing more to offer. So you hold hostage the one thing you do have—your own desire to work.” Her smile was predatory. “Retreating from me to make me curious, provoking me into giving chase.”
“And?” asked Scorio. “Is it working?”
She let out a bark of laughter. “It’s not not working. Take a seat.”
He did, though only on the edge of the bench.
“You look like you can fight.”
“Sure.”
“Any qualms about taking things that don’t belong to you?”
Scorio felt his gut twist. “Would I be here if I did?”
Her eyes gleamed. “Formalities, my dear. Answer the question.”
Scorio thought of Praximar and forced down his distaste. “No problems there.”
“Got family?”
“None.”
“Debts?”
“Nope.”
“Addictions? Flywrap, rustspark, dancing bear?”
He’d no idea what any of those were but simply shook his head.
“Hands.”
He held them out. She examined his nails carefully, then ran a thumb over his palms. “Where are your calluses?”
“I take good care of my hands.”
She snorted, dropped them, and reached toward his face. He held still. She pressed a broad thumb to each cheek and pulled down his lower eyelids. Scrutinized him, then let go. “Well, no obvious problems. Would you be willing to kill a child to get the job done?”
Scorio blanched. “Kill a child?”
Dola watched him carefully, her expression hard. “Uh-huh.”
“No.” He stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Sit your ass down, you passed the test. I don’t want any monsters on my crew.”
He hesitated, his heart pounding, then awkwardly sat down once more. “You’ve got morals, then?”
“What do you take me for?”
“You do Basilisk’s dirty work.”
“Sometimes. But I need people with smarts and enough morality to not create unnecessary problems. I’m not above killing if it’s needed, but only as a last resort. People with overly fluid views on right and wrong cause more trouble than they’re worth.”
“All right. What else? Want me to fight someone? Walk a highwire?”
She scoffed. “You think you’re going to be the star of the show? No, I just need an extra pair of eyes for this job, and you seem capable of that. But there’s something off about you, Scorio.”
He forced himself to relax a fraction, to lean back against the alcove’s wall. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve not asked about the pay.” Her eyes narrowed. “The only folks who go this long without asking are moles or thrill-seekers. You don’t strike me as a thrill-seeker.”
“You think I’m working for another House?” He allowed his genuine surprise to show through.
“No calluses. Clear eyes, clear nails. Nothing on your breath. Smart, sharp, and not uneasy to talk to. No family, no debts, no history, and somehow you get Feiyan of all people to walk back through my door.” She smiled grimly. “Doesn’t take a fool to add all that up. And given the unrest on the street…”
“I don’t work for another House.”
“Funny. That’s what a mole would say.”
Tension flowed through the room like a cold current, and a half-dozen men and women slowly uncoiled from their alcoves, rising to their feet, making no overt threatening gestures, but staring at him with the promise of brutality in their eyes.
“You think Feiyan would betray you like this?”
“I already told you. You’re going to have to do better than leaning on her reputation.”
Scorio spread his hands. “Tell me what it’ll take to convince you.”
“That’s on you.” Through all this, Dola remained cool, calm, relaxed. “You’re running out of time.”
The crowd began to close in.
Scorio resisted the urge to stand and forced himself to appear as calm as Dola seemed. His thoughts scrambled, tripping over each other. Dola held his gaze with flinty equanimity.
“If I were an agent for another House, I’d have come in here with a better cover story.”
“Interesting.” Dola considered. “Or it could mean you’re just arrogant and lazy.”
Now Scorio did stand. The others were closing in inexorably. He saw hands closing into fists. A few drew long knives from their ornamental scabbards.
There was no way he could fight his way out of here without someone getting in a lucky cut. The way to the exit was blocked.
“Attack me, and I will defend myself,” he heard himself say.
Dola leaned back, the leather cushions beneath her creaking. “That’d be interesting to see. You defend yourself against this lot, and we can continue our conversation.”
A deep breath. The stench of foul intent was heavy in the air. They weren’t just going to toss him out on his ear.
Scorio drew out his steel rod from where he’d tucked it through his robe. Dola narrowed her eyes.
“See this?” He held it vertically before him, and with a deep breath, he summoned a vision of his Igneous Heart. For a second it escaped him, but then it was there, gloriously indifferent to his plight, cold and gleaming and suspended in the void.
“A bar of metal,” said Dola, nonplussed.
He reached for the black, sooty clouds, and to his surprise found them to be lighter here, tinted reddish-brown. They responded more energetically to his will, sweeping around him once, twice, and then into the treasure.
He felt it activate.
Six seconds to go.
“Look,” he said, and released it.
The bar remained suspended in the air.
The crowd froze, their expressions betraying surprise and confusion.
“And then here is a little bridge,” he said, drawing out the second treasure. “Cunningly made, right?”
He set the bridge’s edge against the bar. Again he stirred the coppery clouds which were as thick and responsive as before. He swept them around his Igneous Heart, urgency giving him focus, and into the bridge.
It burst forth, exploding into its full size, anchored by the bar’s impossible fixity, smashing its forward beam straight into the crowd, knocking men and women flying, breaking bones, eliciting screams in an explosion of kinetic power.
Dola gaped. The bridge filled the room, the thunderous sound of masonry smashing outward into the next chamber accompanied by billows of dust that rolled in, fragments of stone falling as cracks spiderwebbed across the ceiling. The bridge leaned drunkenly at an angle, then shrank rapidly, contracting to fall amongst the distant rubble in its miniaturized form, just as the steel bar fell with a satisfying thwap into Scorio’s palm.
The crowd was scattered, tossed about, several of them unconscious, half of them sitting up, cradling broken limbs and clutching at their sides.
Scorio slid his steel bar into his belt and sat back down. He felt panicked, exposed, and cursed at the necessity that had forced him to betray his true nature. But events were what they were, and now he had to play his hand all the way.
“So,” he said, looking at where Dola had remained seated. “Ready to continue our conversation?”
“You…” She dragged her gaze back to him. “You’re a Great Soul?”
“Kind of.” He waggled his head from side to side. “Not really. But I know some tricks. And I’m interested in working for you.”