It was a fantasy. Her father, one of the most powerful men in Ossa, had publicly denounced the whole concept of legitimizing bastards. Without legitimization, she would never be anything but a favored enforcer, allowed to wear a smaller version of the Vorcien silic sigil as a birthright but having only a fraction of the other privileges that came with it. If she were to ever have children, they would have no silic sigil of their own.
Right now, she wasn’t even favored. Her oldest half brother, Sibrial, hated her more than usual because she refused to lie to that magistrate. Father Vorcien was irritated at her. The chances of her surviving Father Vorcien’s death and the ensuing power transfer had gone from slim to none.
Kizzie spotted one of her own cousins – a nineteen-year-old layabout wearing next to nothing despite the cold and hanging on the arm of a powerful glassdancer – go into the cockfighting arena that housed Churian’s Fulgurist Society. Kizzie swallowed her irritation and checked her pocket watch. It was almost eight o’clock. The mild winter night was cool and dark, the street filled with the sound of chatting passersby and clattering carriages.
She blew on her hands to warm them. Few people so much as glanced in her direction. Bodyguards and low-level enforcers hung around, waiting for their wards to emerge from whatever whorehouse, gambling den, or dazeglass hotel they were enjoying. She nodded at an enforcer who raised his hand in greeting, then pulled the brim of her felt hat down closer to hide her face.
It was just after nine when Churian Dorlani emerged from the cockfighting arena. He was a middle-aged man; tall, balding, and awkward with one hand crudely shoved up the back of the short tunic of the young woman next to him. She leaned into him, giggling in that obviously fake manner of a mistress who puts up with a lot because she has bills to pay.
Kizzie waited for them to reach the end of the street and then detached herself from the shadows to follow.
It was not a long walk; just five blocks to one of the nicer tenement buildings on the edge of the Assembly District. Churian had two mistresses and a mister, and he brought them all to the same apartment. It was, as far as these things went, rather tasteless, but it made Kizzie’s job a lot easier.
She watched them go inside, waited five minutes, and then approached the doorman. “Excuse me,” she said, raising one hand, “the side door of the building is wide open. I can’t imagine anyone will be happy for the cold.”
The doorman swore quietly. “Every damned day. I even put up a sign,” he complained.
“Sorry,” she replied with a sympathetic smile. “I figured you’d want to know. My own doorman was dismissed for such a breach. I thought it was unfair, but a Magna owns my building and you can’t argue with them.”
“Thanks,” he replied. He glanced in both directions, seemed to decide no one needed his help for the moment, and then hurried around the corner. Kizzie slipped inside the tenement the moment his back was turned.
Kizzie walked with purpose, chin raised and eyes confident, an excuse on her tongue in case anyone questioned her presence. She found Churian’s apartment and stopped outside to check that she was prepared. Her stiletto was hidden underneath her jacket, along with a pistol just in case, and Demir’s shackleglass was still in her cork-lined pocket.
Putting one ear to the door, she listened until she was certain that the pair inside were “occupied.”
She often wondered what other pathways she might have followed. What if she hadn’t tried to blackmail that professor her first year at university? She might be off in the provinces, running a winery, with her choice of provincial misters and mistresses. She sighed to herself and removed three small, square regular glass beads from her pocket. No point in ruminating over past mistakes. At least she was listening to idiots have sex instead of slitting the throats of gang members. She could thank Demir for that tiny step up for the moment.
She knelt beside the door, holding the three beads in her palm and focusing. A minor talent in glassdancing was not considered valuable – certainly not one worth adoption into a great guild-family, and the respect, fear, and authority that came with it. Still, she found it had its uses. The beads rose up into the air, moving forward as a clump into the lock. A drop of sweat sprang to her forehead as she maneuvered the beads around inside the lock’s mechanism, putting three different amounts of pressure on the tumblers until they finally clicked.
Within the minute she was inside the apartment, closing the door gently behind her and walking softly across the wooden floor. She ignored the sounds of the liaison in the bedroom and did a quick sweep. It was a simple place, with vaulted ceilings, a few cheap pieces of art on the walls, and gas lanterns. She turned all but one of the lanterns down and found a chair that looked at the bedroom.
This wait felt longer than the one outside the club, though in reality it couldn’t have been more than forty-five minutes. Kizzie held her stiletto in one hand, resting her head against the chair, lounging in the dim light until the mistress emerged from the bedroom.
The young woman paused briefly at the sight of her, then closed the bedroom door behind her. She had her clothes clutched to her chest, and her makeup was smeared.
“Is he asleep?” Kizzie asked quietly.
The mistress nodded. “Is everything as we agreed? You won’t kill him? He’s not evil. Just…” She trailed off, as if even she wasn’t sure why she cared about Churian’s survival.
“I won’t kill him,” Kizzie promised, removing a wad of banknotes from her pocket and placing it on the table next to her. It was enough money to pay several months’ rent on an apartment like this, or several years on a place in the Slag. The young woman plucked it up, regarding Kizzie warily, then crouched in the corner of the sitting room to pull on her tunic and jacket. She was soon gone, leaving Kizzie alone in the apartment with the soft sound of snoring.
Kizzie entered the bedroom, looking down at the slovenly guild-family asshole sleeping nude under a sheet that left little to the imagination. His breathing was heavy, indicative of a deep sleep, and she very carefully slid the shackleglass through one of Churian’s piercings. Shackleglass was not a violent sorcery, and his body didn’t so much as twitch at the feel of it.
Sure that everything was prepared, she shoved Churian’s own undergarments into his open mouth. That woke him up, and she stood above him and watched him flail and grunt for several moments before giving him very specific instructions: “You are to remain still. Do not speak unless to answer a question. Do you understand?” Kizzie turned up the gas lantern above the bed. She could see in Churian’s eyes that his panic was warring with the sorcery of the shackleglass. Eventually the sorcery won out. His expression became one of frightened acceptance, and he nodded in response to her question.
Low-resonance shackleglass was known to make people suggestible and truthful. It was commonly given to convicts and prisoners, and sometimes to the house staff of particularly paranoid or cruel guild-families. High-resonance shackleglass forced the wearer to tell any truth and obey any command. The piece that Demir had given Kizzie was medium-resonance, and it would be perfect for her needs.