“Block the road,” Demir told his driver, leaping down from the running board. The carriage came to a stop at an angle behind him to effectively cut off traffic in front of the High Vorcien Club. The angry shouts and swearing began immediately, starting with the carriage coming toward him from the other end of the road. Demir crossed his arms in front of him, palms facing inward, displaying his twin silic sigils. The opposing driver’s mouth snapped shut and he pulled on his reins, parking his own carriage across the street and leaving Demir standing in an empty space perhaps ten yards across.
Pedestrians stopped to look, and riders climbed out of carriages. They were curious at first, craning their heads, shouting questions at Demir and each other, but a wave of frightened silence seemed to pass back along the rows of carriages, leaving helpless consternation in its wake. If a glassdancer wanted a street blocked, a glassdancer was damned well going to get the street blocked. It would, Demir decided, not take them more than a few minutes before someone sent for the Cinders.
“Tell Capric Vorcien to come out and see me,” Demir told the nervous bouncers standing just outside the club. “Tell him to bring his sword. If he slips out the back then I’ll come to his house, and I won’t be nearly as polite.” To emphasize his point, Demir pulled a glassdancer’s egg from his pocket and tossed it up into the air, catching it casually. One of the bouncers took off inside the club at a run.
The minutes passed slowly as Demir waited, pacing back and forth in the space between the two carriages, sword in one hand and glassdancer egg in the other. The heat below his collar had begun to cool and he tried to reason with himself – to get back in his carriage and let this thing go until later. He knew that was the smart thing to do, but every time he tried to turn away from this course of action his head began to pound, blinding him with pain and fury.
He thought about Capric while he waited. They’d been friends since childhood. Not the closest of friends, not like him, Montego, and Kizzie, but friends nonetheless. They’d been tutored together, gone on holiday together, even gone through officer training together. Demir had taken Capric on the Holikan campaign because he’d needed an officer he could trust. That was, it turned out, the greatest mistake of his life.
He could sense a hundred sets of eyes on him, the crowd growing as the traffic grew further backed up and more pedestrians stopped to stare. This was a city that ran on guild-family drama, and everyone from the lowest newsie boy to the richest merchant could sense that some juicy drama was in the making.
He slashed his sword occasionally at the empty air, his thoughts tumultuous, his expression a calm lid on the maelstrom of fury battering on his insides.
“Demir!” a familiar voice finally called from the door to the club. Demir turned to find Capric standing just outside, unarmed, staring at Demir with genuine fear as dozens of club clients poured out around him, taking up a position in the streets. The elite of Ossa were no more immune to the draw of guild-family drama than the lowest citizen. Demir let his eyes wander across those faces, recognizing many, before returning to Capric.
Capric opened his mouth to speak again, only to be shoved to one side by his bullish older brother. Demir had never particularly cared for Sibrial Vorcien. He was boorish, loud, consumed by a dozen different appetites, and even by the standards of the guild-family scions considered a bully. The biggest surprise out of the Vorcien these last twenty years was that Father Vorcien hadn’t quietly arranged an accident for his heir so that one of the more capable siblings could inherit.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sibrial demanded. He was carrying his sword, and he used it to gesture violently at Demir. “Get this traffic moving! Disperse the crowd!”
“Piss off, Sibrial,” Demir called to him calmly. “This isn’t your business.”
“This is my club! I am the Vorcien heir! I don’t care what kind of favor you curry with the Inner Assembly, I won’t have some minor guild-family patriarch pissant interrupting the–”
Demir felt his patience crack. Not enough to lose control entirely, but enough to make a point. He tossed his glassdancer egg underhanded toward Sibrial and put pressure on it mentally. The egg was halfway through its arc when it shattered into six pinkie-sized shards that spread out into a fan shape, their sharp tips all pointed at Sibrial. Sibrial fell silent immediately, his eyes growing wide and his face red. Demir walked across the space between them, the shards of glass moving to hover just over his shoulder like a cannon full of grapeshot waiting to go off.
“I don’t let anyone on the Inner Assembly talk down to me, just like my mother didn’t,” Demir said to Sibrial. “So what makes you think I’ll let you do it?” He shook his head, barely able to keep his voice calm and measured. “I’m not here for you. Capric, if you don’t have your own sword with you, I suggest you borrow your brother’s.”
Someone else suddenly pushed their way to the front of the crowd. It was Veterixi, the Marnish concierge of the club. She studied Demir’s face for a moment, then whispered something in Sibrial’s ear before saying loudly, “Whatever is going on, I’m sure we can settle it with cigars and cognac. Master Grappo, please come inside.”
Demir admired Veterixi. Like Breenen, she was a common citizen who’d worked her way up to a position of extreme importance and was respected throughout the city. Her intervention almost made him lose his nerve. This was, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him, his last chance. Let it go. None of this was as important as the ongoing war. It could be settled later. But he’d already tipped his hand, and the rage in his breast was too furious to be quelled by the offers of cigars and cognac, even from Veterixi.
“Sorry, Vet,” Demir said, giving her a stiff smile. He pointed his sword at Capric. “This is about my friend Capric.” He turned his attention back to the fourth Vorcien sibling and took a deep breath, hoping his voice would remain steady. “Here.” He dug into his pocket until he found the shackleglass by feel, and then tossed it to Capric. Capric caught it. “Put that on.”
“Don’t do it,” Sibrial hissed. “You have no right!” he shouted at Demir. Veterixi took half a step back. Capric himself held the shackleglass up to the afternoon light, staring at it unblinkingly. His face had gone ghostly pale.
“Put that on,” Demir commanded, “or I will kill you and Sibrial where you stand.”
“You–” Sibrial began.
“Another word and I will nail your feet to the ground with glass and then laugh while you scream!” Demir could feel himself cracking, the seams of his sanity coming apart. The shouting tore up his throat, bringing stinging tears to his eyes. His whole life seemed to march across his mind’s eye, showing him all that he had gained in his youth and then all that he had lost at Holikan and in the years following. He had never felt anything like this, not at his lowest or his highest, and all he could do was ride it. “Put it on, Capric,” he said in a softer voice.
A collective gasp had gone through the crowd – through the elites from the club, the watching pedestrians, and the stalled traffic. It was followed by deathly silence. Everyone was now asking themselves whether a lone glassdancer had ever publicly called out a powerful guild-family before, and how it had turned out. Demir himself was curious as well. He did not know.
Slowly, Capric threaded the hooked end of the shackleglass into one ear.
“I have in my pocket,” Demir said loudly, practically shouting so that everyone watching could hear, “a missive sent to my private secretary from the night of the sacking of Holikan. It is signed by Capric Vorcien, and it orders the sack of the city – a bloody event that has been covered up for nine years, and that was practically – if not legally – blamed on me. Now tell me, Capric. Did you sign those orders?”