“Brother,” Kizzie acknowledged with a slight bow. He must have left instructions with the staff to let him know if she arrived. She swore silently. This was the last thing she needed.
“What the piss are you doing in my club?” he demanded.
“I have–”
“If you say one thing about your privileges I will have you shot.”
Kizzie bit down on her tongue, hard. Sibrial might just do that, consequences be damned. He certainly was unhinged enough. No need to antagonize him. “I came to ask Veterixi if there was anything I could do to make things up to you,” she said, holding out both hands in a gesture of peace.
“Make it up to me? You glassdamned bitch. I was in every paper in Ossa for a week because of you, and you have the nerve to think you could possibly make it up to me? Don’t you bloody move!” He turned in mid-tirade, screaming at a serving girl trying to slip past with a bottle of brandy. The hallway was suddenly silent, including the kitchens at one end and the club at the other. Kizzie could see faces poking around that far corner as curious club members came to see the commotion.
“I’m sorry, Sibrial. I really am. I didn’t know what would happen.” It was a lie that played on Sibrial’s low opinion of her.
“Ignorance is no excuse for betraying me.”
“Betrayal” seemed a strong word for something that had so few real consequences. Kizzie slowly backed her way down the hall, her stomach tying itself in knots. She needed to deescalate things as quickly as possible, or this confrontation would get back to Father Vorcien. She didn’t need that kind of attention right now. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Let’s talk again when you’re sober.” At that, she hurried around the corner, through the kitchens, and out into the alley behind the club. With any luck, Sibrial was drunk enough that he would have no recollection of this in the morning – or at least lose interest in continuing the confrontation.
Kizzie’s luck was absolutely shot through. She was barely halfway down the alley when Sibrial burst out through one of the delivery bays shouting her name. Porters, servants, and enforcers scattered before his fury. Kizzie was ready to abandon her pride completely and hide behind a whiskey barrel, but Sibrial had already spotted her.
“You scummy piece of shit,” he bellowed, advancing quickly. “You aren’t fit to wear the Vorcien sigil. I’ll cut it off you myself!” He searched his belt for a knife but, to Kizzie’s relief, came up with nothing. Instead he brandished his cane. Several more steps and he was upon her.
Sibrial was a noted duelist and boxer, and if he’d had his sword on him he might have killed Kizzie then and there, even if she defended herself. She could not, however, defend herself. Raising her hand to the Vorcien heir was the greatest sin she could commit in the eyes of her father, so she allowed the first blow to strike her unimpeded. The cane cracked against her left arm, hard enough that it went numb immediately. She staggered to one side.
“Sibrial,” she hissed, “don’t do this.” It took all her willpower not to reach for her stiletto, but she reacted in another way – using her sorcery to seize one of her little glass lockpicking beads. It shot from her pocket, so small she could barely see it, and she held it just beside Sibrial’s neck. If he did kill her, the last thing she intended to do before she went was push the damned thing through his neck.
He struck again, hitting the exact same spot. Kizzie hardly felt the blow but it staggered her once more. She caught herself on the wall of the club, swearing quietly, hoping that someone would come out and stop Sibrial before he killed her. Capric would do it, if he wasn’t deep in the dazeglass. Maybe Veterixi, one of his friends, another guild-family heir. Anyone.
She dodged the next blow, and then the next. The hammerglass tip of his cane cracked loudly against the brick, and she held her concentration on the bead floating unnoticed over his shoulder.
“Hold still, damn it! I’m going to give you the beating I should have given you…”
Kizzie lost all patience. She wasn’t going to kill him with that bead, no matter how much she wanted to, but she also wasn’t going to let him kill her. As a lowly enforcer there was nothing she could do in the face of Sibrial’s fury. But as his half sister, she had one option. She ducked the next swing, barreling up against him and grabbing him by his tunic with one hand. “Montego is back in town,” she hissed in his ear. “Do you want my death in the newspapers right now?”
Sibrial jerked himself out of her grip, and for half a moment she thought he would continue his attack. Instead he stared at her, wide-eyed, his cane half raised. His fury was gone, like a candle blown out by a strong wind. He visibly gathered himself. “You’re not worth the beating,” he spat. Whirling, he strode back toward the club service bay.
Kizzie was left alone, holding her left arm, dozens of porters and servants watching her warily. It took the last of her energy to direct the glass bead back into her pocket. Once Sibrial was gone, one of the porters called out to her asking if she needed cureglass. She waved him off and staggered down the alley and out into the street.
She fished a piece of pain-numbing milkglass out of her pocket. It wasn’t very high-resonance, but it took the edge off the pain as feeling came back to her arm. Putting on her gloves and covering her face with a handkerchief, she found a nearby courier office. She pounded on the door until a boy of about thirteen unlocked it.
“Paper,” she instructed. Veterixi had given her one good piece of information: that Glissandi guarded her reputation closely. Kizzie could use that.
The courier boy provided her with a paper and pencil, and she scrawled out a quick note. It said,
I know who you killed eighteen days ago. Meet me in front of the Palmora Pub on the Lampshade Boardwalk tomorrow night at ten. Come alone, or your name will be in the papers.
She thrust the note and a handful of coins into the boy’s hands. “Deliver this to Glissandi Magna at the High Vorcien Club,” she ordered.
The boy stared at her. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
“Perfectly fine. Go on!” She waited long enough for him to apply the courier’s wax seal, then went back into the street and watched him take off toward the club.
It was not a perfect plan. More than likely, Glissandi would have her Purnian bodyguards try to jump her. But unlike that confrontation with her brother, Kizzie had no qualms about fighting back against some hired muscle. She was in pain, angry, and not a little bit humiliated.
She also had a job to do. One way or another, Glissandi was going to tell her why Adriana Grappo died.
18
Demir’s first destination the next morning was a visit to the hotel carpenter. The old man was in the large workshop and carriage house across the street, greasing axles when Demir arrived and dismissed all of the assistants. He found the carpenter’s workbench and laid out a pair of technical drawings he’d spent half the night on. The carpenter finished his work and joined him.
“I need you to modify a carriage,” Demir said. “Give me a cubby hidden underneath the seat like this, with a false top.”
“That looks big enough to hide a person in,” the carpenter observed.
“Sure does, doesn’t it? Can you do it?”
“Easy enough. Might have to shave a couple inches off to hide the cubby. Perhaps put decorative wings inside the wheels here and here.”
“Excellent. How long?”
“A week.”
“Make it five days.” Demir was about to elaborate when a porter appeared holding a calling card. He rolled his eyes, remembering why he’d always found life in the capital annoying. There was just so damned much to be done. “Who is it?” he demanded.