Discarding the satchel full of money, Kizzie used Glissandi’s confusion as a distraction while she patted her down. No knife. No pistol. Damned arrogant guild-family member thought that she could buy her way out of a murder, and that her two bodyguards would take care of things if that didn’t work.
“Move and I’ll give you a red smile,” Kizzie said, raising her stiletto to Glissandi’s throat.
Glissandi’s composure and arrogance were gone. She stared back at Kizzie in fear, breathing heavily. Kizzie brushed her free hand across Glissandi’s ears. A tiny stud of forgeglass and another of sightglass, both of them low-resonance by their feel.
“What do you want?” Glissandi demanded between breaths.
“We already established that. I want answers.”
“No. I’ll give you money. I’ll double what’s in the bag. That’s all I can offer.”
“You can offer a lot more than that.” Kizzie felt in her pocket for the shackleglass. With one quick movement, she forced it into one of the piercings in Glissandi’s right ear. Glissandi’s shoulders immediately slumped, her whole body relaxing. Her expression became resigned, but fear still remained in her eyes.
“Don’t do this,” Glissandi hissed quietly.
Kizzie had no compassion. She’d just been forced to kill a pair of bodyguards over a question. She’d not demanded money or evidence, just answers. She was damned well going to get them. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Did you help kill Adriana Grappo?”
Glissandi began to tremble violently, much like Churian Dorlani. Her mouth opened. A tiny noise issued forth, but it was barely more than a squeak. “I did,” she finally managed.
“Why?”
Glissandi’s right eye twitched. For half a moment, Kizzie thought she was going to have a full-blown seizure, but the Magna spat out one word: “Orders.”
“From who?” Kizzie waited a moment and gave Glissandi a shake. “From who?” she demanded again. “Who wanted Adriana dead? Who were the other killers? Why kill Adriana?”
Glissandi gave a high-pitched whine. Her jaw moved strangely, and it took Kizzie a few moments to realize that there was something leaking from the corner of Glissandi’s mouth. Kizzie took a half step back in horror. Glissandi smiled at her, dark liquid pouring out of her mouth, and mumbled something victoriously.
She had bitten off her own tongue.
“What the pissing…” Kizzie began. She didn’t get the chance to finish. Glissandi suddenly lurched forward, falling on Kizzie’s knife with surprising force, ramming the weapon into her own chest. Glissandi gave a gurgling laugh as she tumbled to the ground. It was a sound Kizzie knew she would remember forever.
Kizzie stared down at the body at her feet, mouth hanging agape, unable to comprehend what had just happened. She felt suddenly very cold. What kind of a person killed themselves rather than sell out their employer? Kizzie’s mouth was dry, her thoughts muddled. She pulled herself together enough to kneel down next to the body, checking Glissandi for more godglass and a pocketbook. She grabbed the leather satchel. She had no way of getting rid of the body. Best make it look like a robbery gone bad.
She swore quietly to herself through the entire process, her hand hurting, her blood pounding. She needed to leave as quickly as possible.
She’d just fetched back the shackleglass when she noticed that there was still life in Glissandi’s eyes. They were moving very slightly, staring past Kizzie with powerful intent. Slowly, Kizzie turned around.
There, out in the darkness, just beyond the help granted to her senses by the sightglass, was a figure. It looked like a man, bald and impossibly tall and thin, nearly seven feet tall. She could see the glint of light off his eyes as he stared at her, but he did not move or speak. Kizzie’s pulse quickened further. Snatching everything she had gathered to herself, she hurried away from Glissandi’s body.
She paused at the next alley to look back. The figure remained where he was, staring directly at Kizzie. He didn’t even look down at Glissandi’s body. Who was he? A night watchman? Another bodyguard? A damned boardwalk madman? Kizzie did not want to know. She’d had enough of confrontation for one night. She hurried down to the Palmora Pub, where she ducked inside and then let herself out through a service hatch underneath the bar. Creeping along beneath the boardwalk, she heard heavy footsteps above her.
The footsteps paused, and between the cracks she could see a light-skinned man staring toward the Palmora. It was definitely the tall man. He did not go any closer, but gave a heavy sigh and then turned and walked back the way he came – up toward Glissandi’s body. Kizzie waited until she could no longer hear his footsteps before she found a ladder and made her way back up to the boardwalk.
She had never once before in her life run home out of fear. She wasn’t about to do it now, but she’d be damned if she didn’t find herself moving much faster than usual until she’d sought out a hackney cab and had paid the driver to take her to her apartment. A powerful guild-family member had just killed herself rather than admit who gave the orders to kill Adriana Grappo. With her dying gaze, she had looked at that tall man in the shadows.
Something was rotten in Ossa – far more rotten than usual.
21
Idrian left the relative safety of the Ossan front line at around two o’clock in the morning. He wore a cloak that covered his civilian’s clothes, and a strip of cloth that acted as an impromptu eye patch to cover his godglass eye. A sack of Mika’s grenades hung from his belt, precariously close to his nethers – not that it would matter if one went off accidentally. He wore sightglass to let him see well in the dark, and enough forgeglass that his body was practically humming with sorcery. Every step felt light, as if he weighed practically nothing.
The night was as cold as any he’d ever experienced in Ossa, and he could see the fogging breath of the Ossan sentries as he slipped past them in the darkness. His footsteps made barely a sound. No one so much as twitched in his direction, and for that he was grateful.
Thanks in large part to the Ironhorns, the Ossan Foreign Legion controlled almost the entire wealthy district of townhouses that lay at the bottom of the palace hill. Beyond that was a wooded park – a no-man’s-land between the two armies – and then a series of barricades and entrenchments that worked their way up nearly a half mile of open hillside. Some two thousand troops camped on that lawn, many of them on guard against a possible night attack. There were at least six artillery batteries as well, but so far the Grent had not stooped to blasting away at their own upper-class townhouses.
Idrian could see those defenses, lit at regular intervals by torchlight, from his position beneath a tree in the park. Up ahead was the first row of sandbags, and he could see the eyes of the sentries at their watch. It was a daunting display that would have given him pause with a whole brigade at his back. On his own, it was downright terrifying. The one piece of good news was that Tadeas had gotten his hands on spymaster reports indicating that the palace itself had been abandoned by the ducal family – sent off to safety in the Glass Isles – and that it was now being used as a barracks for the Grent officers. He would face soldiers, but not the dozen breachers that made up the duke’s closest bodyguards.
Crouching, moving from tree to tree at a careful run, Idrian worked his way along the park parallel to the Grent defenses until he reached a babbling little brook. He took his turn there, following the brook into a narrow crevasse that wound up the hillside, all the way to a small spring just beneath the palace. It was the one piece of real topography on the hill, and it ran directly through the center of the Grent defenses.