“I’ll take this to the Assembly myself!” he declared. “We cannot treat people like cattle and then balk when they stampede. These are our friends. Our fellows. They deserve to be heard without the threat of a razorglass blade.”
Thessa was right behind Demir now, and though she could not see above the heads of the crowd she could feel a sudden change in the wind. Someone shouted, “The Cinders are backing off!”
“Huzzah! Huzzah!”
Thessa could feel the crowd begin to move again in a rush of adrenaline. She grabbed the lamppost and pulled herself up next to Demir. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Helping you end this,” she replied. Raising her voice, she said, “The Grappo will share what we have, though it is not much! A single piece to everyone who can hear my voice, and then withdraw and let Demir fulfill his promise!” She tugged on Demir’s sleeve. “Quickly, before they can work themselves up again.” She half pulled him back to the stairs of the Hyacinth, the rioters parting before her like a wave. The attention of the crowd was now on them, but something had dampened it – within minutes lines had formed, several of the union bosses working their way up to the front and shaking Demir’s hand enthusiastically before getting their people in order.
Thessa found herself swept up in the entire thing, kissed on the cheek, showered with blessings as she handed out pieces of forgeglass. She was dizzy and euphoric, and when she felt friendly hands gently pulling her back inside, she did not fight them. She found herself in the lobby, dazed, facing an angry Breenen.
“You could have gotten us all killed,” the concierge scolded. “That crowd might have turned on you in an instant.”
“Breenen!” a sharp voice rebuked. “Let her be.” They were joined by Demir, who removed his jacket and tossed it to one of the porters. Underneath it he was absolutely soaked with sweat. Breenen pulled back, scowling, and Thessa watched him go. “Forgive him,” Demir said quietly. “That was brilliant. Risky, but brilliant.” His face was flushed, and Thessa knew her own matched it.
“They needed something else,” she said. “You halted their momentum, and they needed a victory. Forgeglass is a victory. And it’s cheap.”
“Not anymore it’s not.”
“If you have the cindersand, I’ll replenish what we’ve given away,” Thessa promised.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Demir looked uncertain for a moment, eyes traveling around the foyer as if he were seeing it for the first time. He finally focused back on Thessa. “I’ll take care of this. Best you not be seen much more in public, or the Magna will come around asking questions.”
Thessa nodded her agreement. That was quite enough excitement for a month, let alone ten minutes. Quietly she said, “This is only going to get worse. I have to move quickly. I’ll start my work right now.” She watched Demir go, then returned to her rooms, where it took some time for the adrenaline to wear off. She watched from the window as slowly, surely, the crowd dispersed. National Guardsmen and enforcers from a dozen different guild-families swept through the streets, driving off stragglers and assessing the damage. The riot was over.
For the moment.
Gathering the schematics, Thessa headed down to the hotel garden, where Demir had already shown her the little workshop where she could rebuild the phoenix channel. The prototype – destroyed by the fires of the Grent Glassworks – was waiting for her. Thessa paced around it, preparing her thoughts, getting ready to bend her neck to the work. She had to do this. For herself. For Kastora. For the stability of the world.
Somewhere above, she heard the cry of a falcon as she got to work.
29
National Guard watchhouses were one of the most ubiquitous sights in the Ossan capital. There were hundreds of them, seemingly one on every corner, and they housed the closest thing that Ossa had to a proper police force. They were all made of a utilitarian red brick with white signs that listed their watchhouse number, and more often than not a pair of National Guardsmen in their sharp gray uniforms with auraglass buttons and bearskin hats patrolling out front. In Kizzie’s experience, the National Guard did little actual policing. Their primary role was to enforce the Assembly’s will – quell riots, defend the capital, keep the people in line. Their secondary role was to act as unofficial enforcers for whichever guild-family paid their wages.
Kizzie jogged up the stairs to Watchhouse 187, on a narrow street on the edge of the Slag, nodding to the two guardsmen posted outside. It was a small building, jammed between two factories, with a main room, a few holding cells, and a bunkhouse on the second floor.
“Kizzie!” Gorian greeted her as she came through the door. Gorian sat at a card table with three other guardsmen, who all called her name in greeting. Kizzie returned the hellos and set a bottle of Nasuud whiskey on the card table. She might not pay their wages, but keeping 187 in good booze had made her very popular on this street. A chorus of thank-yous followed, and Kizzie jerked her head at Gorian. “Give me a moment,” he told his companions, stubbing out a cigarette and joining her as she warmed her hands by the little potbellied stove in the corner.
“What’s this I’m hearing about a riot in the Assembly District?” she asked.
“Something about godglass prices riling up the teamsters unions,” Gorian responded. “They’ve got us on standby in case they need us to break some skulls, but I imagine the Cinders will cut down a few hundred of them and that’ll be the last of it. How did things go with your dad?” he asked.
So it was true. A riot in the Assembly District felt ominous, but Kizzie couldn’t quite place why. “Not terribly,” Kizzie responded. She moved on from that quickly, not wishing to dwell on the tiny bit of guilt that had settled in her stomach at the thought of selling out Demir’s secret project in exchange for legitimization. “How about you? Did you get me a membership roll for the Glass Knife?”
Gorian glanced over his shoulder at his companions. “We should talk outside.”
Kizzie allowed him to move their conversation back out into the cold, just to one side of the front steps of the watchhouse, where they could talk quietly without being overheard. Once they were alone, he spoke in a low voice. “There’s a couple of things,” he said. “First off, I actually got a nibble about that tall man you described to me. You know those siliceers that have been dropping dead?”
“You mean murdered and thrown in the Tien?” Kizzie asked. “It’s been all over the papers for weeks.”
“Yeah.” Gorian lowered his voice even further. “There’s a rumor going around that there’s a secret sorcery war going on between the guild-families, and that the killer is working for one of the guild-families.”
Kizzie had heard no such thing, which was strange because rumors like that were almost always started by loose-lipped enforcers. She should have been among the first to hear it. Then again, she was out of favor and had been for several months. Nobody told her anything unless she asked. “A secret sorcery war is a very dangerous thing.”
“Agreed, but to be honest I can’t even confirm that it exists.” Gorian made the face he always did when he was about to feed her information that was even less reliable than usual. “I was pulling some of those reports just after we spoke, trying to jog my memory, and I came across three different eyewitnesses that testified to seeing a very tall, bald Purnian near the site of the attacks. There’s no conclusive evidence, and the guardsmen assigned to investigate haven’t been able to bring him in.”