Of all the possibilities that haunted her, one stood out. If that was really a Grappo, and he was here to get her out, she had to find the phoenix channel schematics immediately. There was no telling when a rescue might take place. But could she manage to steal them back? The laborer had given her good information about the overseer’s office, but Thessa was no sleight-of-hand artist; a thief or a trickster. Did she really dare to sneak in there alone? And what if they were locked up?
The midday meal finally arrived, and the other prisoners filed out while Thessa remained behind to fill both her own and Axio’s trays. She touched Axio on the shoulder as he left.
“I’ll join you in a minute,” she told him, “and do me a favor: ask some of the hired help who that man was. Surely someone knows.”
Axio gave her a determined nod and left her alone in the furnace. She reveled in the moment of silence and solitude, bending to work the knot out of the small of her back and giving herself a minute of sitting on the floor with her boots off to rub her feet. She could hear one of the hired laborers clunking around at the back of the furnace, tossing more firewood into the flames.
Still on the floor, Thessa reached up and pulled down her tray, setting it in her lap to count the earrings. Something about the weight was slightly off. She frowned, searching around in the earrings until she found what appeared to be a piece of paper. No, something wrapped in paper. It was about six inches long, an inch wide, quite thin. She opened the paper, letting the object fall into her hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. It was a piece of razorglass. The blade was only about two inches of it, secured in a thin handle, the type of tool used by high-level craftsmen for delicate cutting work. Good razorglass was incredibly difficult to make and could slice through just about anything. She looked at the paper to find a message written inside.
For emergencies only! Hold tight. Escape in the planning.
Glassdamn, she was right. He was a Grappo, and he was here to help. The leering and arrogance had been an act – or at least she hoped it was – for the benefit of the overseer.
Thessa’s throat was dry as she looked over her shoulder, clutching both paper and razorglass to her chest. When she was triply sure she was alone, she threw the paper into the furnace. Using the razorglass, she cut a ribbon of heavy canvas off a spare siliceer’s apron hanging by the door, wrapped the razorglass in it, and stuffed it in her pocket.
She returned to her work and had only just managed to calm herself by the time Axio and the other prisoners came back from lunch. She snatched a hard biscuit from Axio, choking it down as he whispered, “His name is Demir Grappo. Everyone’s talking about him. I guess he won a share of the glassworks ownership from one of the Magna while gambling, and insisted on an inspection. The overseer is pretty shook up over the whole thing and so are all the guards and hired help. Glassworks ownership hasn’t left the Magna family for years.”
A shiver of anticipation went down Thessa’s back. Relief flooded through her, and the excited tightness in her chest felt less uncertain. She touched her pocket to be sure the razorglass was still there. For emergencies only.
She knew exactly what emergency she could use it for.
Idrian wasn’t often required to attend intelligence briefings, but when an order came down that breachers had been summoned along with the regular officers it never boded well. It was just past noon and the world was surprisingly still for midday. He’d heard nothing but distant shots for over an hour – it was almost like both sides of the war had agreed upon a little break while they independently figured out what the piss they were up to.
For all he knew, that was exactly what had happened.
He trudged back far behind the lines with Tadeas and Mika, wearing his officer’s uniform, his boots and godglass eye both freshly polished. Valient was in charge of the Ironhorns in their absence. Idrian felt torn about the brief respite – on the one hand, he’d get to spend a few hours without getting shot at. On the other, he needed the Ironhorns to continue their push toward the palace. They could take it today, and when they did he’d come away with that cinderite for Demir. He could feel it.
They arrived at a repurposed Grent dance hall that had remained undamaged during the fighting, shuffling inside with the rest of the weary officers, exchanging nods and a few words of greeting. Idrian spotted at least a dozen other breachers, their monikers stitched into their uniforms like his own – the Steel Horse, the Falcon, the Trebuchet, the Black Pit, the Glass Pisser. There would be more breachers in their midst, ones that hadn’t earned a nickname, but without their uniforms they were impossible to tell from the other officers. There were several dozen glassdancers too, their uniforms covered in brightly colored embroidery to show off their status and flout military regulation. While breachers mingled, glassdancers were most often alone.
Tadeas elbowed his way to a position along the side of the community hall, near an exit, and Idrian was happy to follow. He recognized some of the senior staff already on the stage at one end of the hall, and this position gave him a view of both the order givers and the order receivers. It was a good place to be to read the room.
“I hate these meetings,” Mika whispered to him, “makes me feel so exposed. A well-placed barrel of powder beneath the floorboards and an enterprising engineer could wipe out the cream of the Ossan officer corps for three brigades.”
“Four armed breachers,” Idrian answered.
“Eh?”
“That’s what it would take to kill everyone in this room and escape before a response could be mustered.”
“Even with the glassdancers?”
Idrian considered his assessment. “They’d still have a good chance at succeeding in full armor.”
A couple of nearby officers glanced worriedly toward Idrian and Mika. Idrian grinned back at them, noting the way their mouths opened – probably a rebuke – before their eyes fell to the ram stitched on the breast of his jacket. Once they saw that, they kept their thoughts to themselves.
Mika noticed it too, chuckling, and whispered, “I have two grenades in my pocket.”
“I thought you were walking funny,” Idrian said, still looking across the room for people he recognized. He noted a few absences. Otherwise occupied, or dead? He’d have to check up on friends later. “Didn’t Tadeas tell you to leave the explosives behind?”
“What? Regular officers can wear a sword or a pistol, but I can’t have a grenade handy? Pissing unfair and I won’t stand for it.”
“You two are making our compatriots nervous,” Tadeas said. He seemed to be doing the same thing as Idrian; scanning the room, occasionally exchanging a nod. “Glad to know you’re carrying, Mika. If something happens I’ll have Idrian light you on fire and throw you at the enemy.”
Mika narrowed her eyes at Idrian, as if gauging whether he could throw her far enough to be effective.
“Hey,” he responded to that glare, “I didn’t say it.”
“Shut your yappers,” Tadeas said, “General Stavri has arrived.”
A murmur rose through the hall as a number of senior officers took the stage. General Stavri was a robust man in his mid-fifties, with broad shoulders, a potbelly, and strong arms. He had short brown hair and a complexion that favored his father. He was the third in line for leadership of the Stavri guild-family and had made his bones all around the world in the Ossan Foreign Legion.