He grunted at the blow, swore twice, then gave out a squeal at the feel of the steel on his skin. She forced him back against the next workbench. “Do not mistake my compassion for weakness,” she hissed. “If you whisper a word to Craftsman Magna – if my friend gets flogged or pushed around or sent away because of your loose lips – you will have an accident. You might lose an eye, or a hand, or get locked in a furnace when no one can hear your screams.” She could barely believe the words coming out of her own mouth. They didn’t sound like her, but she continued. “Test me, and you will lose bits of you. That’s a promise. Get it?”
Six nodded carefully, his eyes wide. Thessa jerked her head and stepped back, letting him flee. The moment he was out of the furnace room she felt her knees buckle and had to lean on her workbench for support. Was this going to get worse? Was this what she had to become to survive in here? In Ossa? She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cool steel plate on the workbench.
“Well that was unexpected.”
Thessa jerked around, the shears still in her hand coming up like a weapon. Pari, the laborer she’d just helped with the wood cart, stood just inside a service entrance. Thessa lowered the shears. “What do you want?” she demanded. The stress inside her was starting to wear through, and for the first time in her life she seriously considered whether she could kill someone in a rage.
The laborer raised her hands, palms out, wincing at the gesture. “I came to say thank you. Had to calm down a little before I did. I’m not going to owe a prisoner a favor, so I’m putting it out once: if there’s anything you need, tell me right now.”
Thessa blinked back at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Something smuggled inside,” Pari explained impatiently. “Some cigars, some spending cash. I can’t do much, but I can get you a little luxury. Then we’re square, right? But you have to tell me now. No favors in the future.”
Thessa glanced around in bewilderment, her mind spinning. “Can you get a message out for me? To someone who might pay my ransom?”
“That’s not going to work,” Pari said, shaking her head. “Too risky for me, and even if I did, no ransoms will be allowed until after the war ends. That’s policy all the way from the top of the government, and even Craftsman Magna won’t break that rule.”
“Then…” Thessa tried to think of something – anything – that would help her escape. It was clear this favor had pretty strict limits. Pari wasn’t going to risk getting killed by Magna enforcers just to help someone who lifted a cart off her. Thessa grimaced. Could she take a greater risk? Did she have a choice? “Craftsman Magna took something important from me. Where would he keep it?”
The laborer raised both eyebrows. “You really are a daring one. I guess it’s cheap information.” She considered this for a moment before nodding to herself. “If it’s a personal effect, one of the guards already pawned it. If it was something more valuable, then it’s in his office somewhere.”
“Really?” Thessa asked. Could it be that close by?
“Yeah. He keeps anything he values here in the compound so his addict brothers don’t steal it.”
“Is his office guarded?”
Pari just shook her head. “I do not suggest doing whatever it is you’re thinking about. The moment they catch you … well, the lumber camps will look pleasant. Don’t try to seduce him either. It’s been tried before and it just annoys him.”
Thessa pulled a face that elicited a laugh from the laborer. “I will not try that.”
“Then we’re square here, right?” Pari said, turning toward the service entrance. “No favors, no nuthin’.”
Thessa took half a step toward her. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the prison offices?”
The laborer hesitated. “Look, I shouldn’t have even…” She sighed. “Piss, I guess I’m heading back into Ossa tonight anyway. Can’t haul wood with this. Need a new job.” She held up her splinted finger, wincing at the motion. “Fine. The offices are rarely locked. The two enforcers on normal guard duty are always there, but they’re sleeping together and I can’t think of the last time they paid attention to anything.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “One other thing: Craftsman Magna is religious. He’s a vehement Rennite. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.” Gesturing goodbye, Pari slipped out the service entrance.
Thessa barely noticed her leaving. She was thinking now, planning. That bit about Craftsman Magna being religious might be the key to this whole thing. She knew where the schematics were now. She had to get them out. Maybe even cause the distraction she needed in the process.
17
The High Vorcien Club, on the edge of the Family District, was a sprawling single-story building covering two whole city blocks with gambling, dazeglass, whores, food, cigars, private cudgeling matches, and more; all without the stain of lower-class revelry at Glory Street. It was the premier place to be for the elite of the elite within Ossan society.
It was also owned by Kizzie’s oldest half brother, Sibrial.
Kizzie slipped through the back entrance, dodging porters as they carried in crates of expensive wine and nodding to the madams smoking cigarettes outside the delivery bays. There were a handful of enforcers hanging around, rolling dice on the floor or reading books in forgotten corners. A few raised their eyebrows at her, but no one stopped her as she made her way through the labyrinth of kitchens and service passages and up to the raised gallery behind a massive one-way mirror that overlooked the main floor of the club.
She clung to the wall, allowing waiters to come and go without interruption, watching the chaotic dance that kept the club running. Standing by the mirror, snapping orders like a general on a battlefield, was a statuesque, dark-skinned woman in her late fifties wearing a translucent black tunic cut to be a more professional version of the club uniform.
Veterixi Jorn, the concierge, had been with the family since well before Kizzie was born – a High Vorcien Club porter back before Father Vorcien had passed it on to Sibrial. She was the ultimate authority in this place, almost akin to a guild-family majordomo in her own right. She could be trusted with pretty much anything, and refused to play at family politics, including the spat between Kizzie and Sibrial.
“You know that your brother will kill you if he sees you here,” Veterixi said suddenly, filling a brief lull in the constant stream of reports. She did not look away from her view of the club.
“It’s still the family club,” Kizzie said, holding up her hand to show the silic sigil, “and I still have a few privileges.”
“Oh yeah? Sibrial’s playing cards at his usual table,” Veterixi shot back. “You want to go join him?”
“I’m brash, not stupid,” Kizzie snorted. “I just came to ask a favor.”
Veterixi held up one hand as a young man – one of the scantily clad servers – rushed into the gallery weeping. She touched him gently on the shoulder, conducting a quick exchange that was too quiet for Kizzie to hear, and then sent him on his way. “Get rid of Needor Plagni,” she ordered one of the porters standing at attention. “And ban her from the club for a full month. I don’t give a shit if she is a glassdancer, if she lays a hand on another one of my employees against their will, she will be banned permanently.”
Kizzie coughed in her hand once the porter had gone. “I heard one of the Plagni’s glassworks was vandalized last night. Hundreds of thousands of ozzo’s worth of godglass smashed and the guards blaming it on everything from foreign nationals to giant birds. I bet they’re on edge.”