Kizzie tensed and took a long, slow breath. How would Father Vorcien do it? Piss, how would Demir do it? Probably let the guy talk and hope he gave her the answers she was looking for along the way. “I’m all ears,” she said, returning his smile.
“The Vorcien will withdraw any inquiry into the murder of Adriana Grappo, and in return we will maintain the peace between us.”
Kizzie scoffed. What kind of damned arrogance was this? “That’s not a message. That’s a demand.”
“It is what you make of it.”
“The Vorcien don’t take well to demands.”
“And my master doesn’t take well to meddling.”
Kizzie felt the wan smile slide off her face. “Perhaps your master would like to meet with Father Vorcien himself. Let the two of them work it out.”
“Then what would us poor servants have to do with our lives, hmm? No. This is a one-time thing. A warning. A demand. A message. Whatever you want to call it, take it back to Father Vorcien.”
“You haven’t even told me who you are or who you work for.”
“Nor will I.”
“Then why should I so much as sniff at you?” she asked. “I may not be a full-blood Vorcien, but I am a Vorcien.” She laid her right hand flat on the table to show the small silic sigil. “Until I know who you actually are, I can only assume you’re a nobody. A spot on the road. Father Vorcien would laugh me out of his estate if I came back to him with such a demand.”
“Not all power comes with a famous name.”
“Have you been in Ossa long?”
The Tall Man chuckled softly. “You’re charming, Kissandra Vorcien. Just the right mix of clever and arrogant to make a good enforcer. But at this moment you’re making a mistake. Take the message to your father.”
Kizzie couldn’t shake the feeling of unease itching between her shoulder blades, like she could sense a marksman on a nearby roof with her head in the crosshairs. There was no marksman, though, and she wasn’t even near a window. She thought of what she’d told Gorian earlier about the Tall Man oozing violence. It was the same sort of sense, she suddenly realized, that she used to get from Montego. They both had the same subtle, animal ferocity just underneath the surface, like a spring loaded into a trap.
All her instincts told her to stand up and walk out. If she did, how could she possibly explain that to Father Vorcien? That she let herself – a Vorcien bastard and a prime enforcer – get pushed around by a nobody? It was absolutely out of the question.
“I don’t have the patience for this,” she finally said, raising her chin. She signaled to Gorian with the roll of one finger. All conversation from the other end of the room ceased. Gorian and his National Guardsmen got up from their card games, spreading out, crossing over to them with weapons in hands. Kizzie said, “I want answers from you, asshole. Why were you at the Brawlers Club?”
The Tall Man gave a long-suffering sigh.
“Answer me,” Kizzie demanded. “Who’s your master? Is it a member of the Glass Knife? Out with it now!” Moments passed and the Tall Man finished the rest of his tea, then carefully folded his newspaper before making to stand. “Gorian, arrest this piece of shit,” Kizzie said.
Gorian stepped forward, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You stay seated until Kizzie says otherwise,” he ordered.
The Tall Man sighed. “I see. You really aren’t taking this seriously, are you?” he asked Kizzie.
“I will when you do,” Kizzie replied, reaching for her knife.
In the time it took her to grasp the hilt of her stiletto, the Tall Man had broken Gorian’s arm. It happened in the blink of an eye, so quick that for half a second she thought she’d imagined it. But in the next moment, Gorian was on the ground screaming in pain while chaos erupted around her. Kizzie drew her stiletto, summoning all of the strength granted by her forgeglass to shove the table against the Tall Man.
It was like pushing against a boulder. The Tall Man barely seemed to nudge the table back and Kizzie found herself flung against the wall, stunned by the impact, watching with dizzying horror as the Tall Man seemed to whirl around the room. He caught a guardsman by the throat, rammed his fist into the chest of another, snatched the woman’s truncheon, and then swung it in a lazy-looking arc that dashed the brains out of two more. The guardsmen, all of them wearing low-resonance forgeglass, looked like they were standing still compared to the Tall Man.
Kizzie fought through her daze and tightened her grip on her stiletto, leaping forward to plant it square in the Tall Man’s back. Or at least, that had been her intention. He seemed to sense her movement behind him and stepped out of the way. Her blade barely slid along his side, a deep but not inconveniencing cut that he answered by smashing his elbow against her chest. The blow knocked her back against the wall once more, all the air forced out of her lungs.
By the time she had recovered enough to move, everyone else – eleven glassdamned National Guardsmen – was on the ground. Kizzie sank low, cursing the Tall Man silently as she darted forward. The pisser was fast as anything she’d ever seen, but she was no slouch, and she would not go down without a fight. He spun toward her, smacking aside the blade of her stiletto with the flat of his hand. He did not, however, see her blackjack. She clocked him on the side of the chin with every bit of force she could muster, the blow hard enough to wrench her own wrist around painfully.
He did not go down. He barely even flinched. He batted the blackjack away, punched her in the stomach hard enough to make her see stars, and then snatched her by the throat and lifted her up to his eye level. Kizzie scratched his arms, kicked at his knees and groin, all to no avail.
“This is your one warning,” he told her over the sound of her own struggles. “Give it to Father Vorcien. There won’t be another.”
The next thing Kizzie knew, she was lying flat on her back, staring up at the watchhouse ceiling. Stars circled her vision, and every damned part of her hurt. It felt like she’d fallen off a two-story building directly onto her chest. Her throat felt absolutely crushed, but she found she could both breathe and speak.
“Gorian,” she muttered, flailing around, trying to find her knife. She lifted her head enough to see that the Tall Man had disappeared. The room was completely silent, which was a relief for a few moments until she realized just how completely. There wasn’t a moan or a curse or even the sound of breathing. Panicking, she scrambled to her hands and knees and flailed over body after body, looking into lifeless faces that she’d bribed and bought drinks for over the years.
Gorian was in the corner. He must have gotten back up after having his arm broken, because he was some distance from the table. He lay with his head propped up against the wall, a surprised look on his face, eyes glassy and chest not moving. Swallowing bile, Kizzie gently shook him and bent to put her cheek in front of his mouth. “Gorian?”
Nothing.
Gorian was dead, and Kizzie had nothing to show for it.
Father Vorcien’s carriage was halfway down the estate drive, probably heading off to the Assembly District, when Kizzie forced it to stop by standing in the middle of the gravel. The driver pulled up, bodyguards leaping from the running boards and reaching for swords. Men and women that she’d known her entire life looked like strangers to her, the world dark and unfeeling. For half a moment, she thought they were just going to shoot her down right then and there, but a word was exchanged and a hand cracked by glassrot scales reached out of the carriage window and beckoned her forward.
“What has happened?” Father Vorcien demanded, looking her up and down from inside the carriage. His gaze lingered on her neck, and she wondered how red it was. It certainly hurt like a bitch, even with milkglass on.