The Thorn of Dentonhill (4 page)

Aventil was a neighborhood where people lived, and the gangs treated it like their home. They gave their neighbors a measure of respect. That included the University. It was well accepted that a student who had had a little too much beer could stumble back to campus without worrying about getting his head cracked open.

“So, are we going to the Turnabout then?” Delmin asked.

“Pff,” Veranix said. “We'd be neck deep in Rose Street Princes there.”

“They don't care for Uni boys going in there, right?” Delmin said.

“Please don't try and speak in their lingo, Del,” Veranix said. “It really sounds pathetic coming from you.”

“Don't be a jerk, Vee,” Delmin said, snickering. The color had returned to his face, and he was looking relaxed again.

“Besides, unless you want strikers and beer, there's no point going to the Turnabout.”

“Right,” Delmin said. He grinned. “So it's the R&B you have in mind.”

“Absolutely.”

The Rose & Bush was a tavern, aptly named for being at the corner of Rose Street and Bush Lane. Like most buildings in this part of town, it was made of rough-cut limestone and dark painted wood.

The people in the Rose & Bush were a mix of students and neighborhood locals. It was a crowded mash of wooden tables and bodies. Shouts and laughter filled the air. Oil lamps hung from every post and the fireplace blazed, filling the place with warm light and warmer air.

Delmin pointed over to the fireplace, where there were still a few open tables. Veranix nodded and went over, while Delmin headed over to the barman. On his way to the table, Veranix dodged around a game of darts, almost disrupted a card game, and accidentally knocked a buxom neighborhood girl into the lap of a fellow student. He took a seat at the table. Instinctively he checked his pockets to make sure no fast fingers had found their way in there. That was all too common at the Rose & Bush.

Delmin came over with two mugs of cider. “Lamb stew and sausages all right?”

“Perfect. Great,” Veranix said. He took a long drink of cider.

“I'm telling you, Vee, you have to be more careful,” Delmin said. “You're lucky that Alimen likes you.”

“Embarrassing me like that means he likes me?” Veranix asked.

“Yes,” Delmin said. “Anyone else would have gotten demerits for falling asleep.”

“No, no. You should hear him in any of my practicals. ‘If only you had the grasp on theory that Mister Sarren has. If only your sense of
numinic
displacement was as finely tuned as Mister Sarren's.'”

“Trust me, Vee. My practicals are worse. Sensing
numinic
displacement is the only thing I do well.”

“Alimen is always on me to do it better.”

“Because he likes you. He's grooming you for Lord Preston's Circle.”

“I guess they want their money's worth,” Veranix joked. He knew it was true, though. Lord Preston's Circle was paying for his education, with the pledge that he would join once he finished his four years of schooling.

“At least you have a Circle lined up,” Delmin said sourly. “You've got nothing to worry about along that score.” Delmin didn't have any Circle as a patron, and had no prospects for recruitment yet. Veranix was surprised to hear him being bitter about it, though. Veranix had never heard of a magic student not getting a Circle invitation after receiving their Letters.

“And you have no obligations,” Veranix said. He tried to make it light, but it came out as a snap, and Delmin noticed.

“Nothing wrong with obligations, Vee. Or stability.”

“I didn't say that—”

“You do know how lucky you are, right? For Professor Alimen to find you . . .”

Veranix stopped listening, knowing that Delmin was about to recount what he believed Veranix's history to be, the well-rehearsed lie that Veranix told whenever anyone asked him about his past. Delmin and almost everyone on campus believed his family were Racquin merchant caravaners, that he had lived his life traveling the highways of Druthal before coming to the University of Maradaine. The lie was close enough to the truth that it was easy to maintain. His mother was Racquin, they did travel the highways. Only Professor Alimen and Kaiana knew the truth, and they still didn't know everything.

“Maybe you're right,” Veranix said. He glanced over to the corner of the pub and saw one of his obligations watching him.

Delmin drummed his fingers on the table and looked around. “Where is the server? I'm starved. Aren't you?”

“Always,” Veranix said. The joke around U of M was that magic students were always hungry and always skinny, but no one personified that more than Delmin. Veranix needed to eat, though, since he had done so much magic in the last day, and he knew he had more ahead of him tonight.

“I'm going to hunt him down,” Delmin said. “Another cider?”

“Please,” Veranix said. Normally, he would chide Delmin for being impatient, as he had hardly given the server enough time to deliver their meal, especially in this crowd. This time, however, he was glad Delmin was getting up, because he had noticed Colin on the other side of the room.

Colin, a seedy-looking young man in a threadbare cloak, sat alone at a table in the corner. People at the tables around him looked nervous, only occasionally glancing at him, as if each time they hoped he would be gone. When they did look, their eyes went to the tattoo on his right arm: a rose over a crown. Everyone in the pub knew what that meant: he was a Rose Street Prince. The Rose & Bush was part of the Princes' territory, but they rarely went inside. If anyone in the pub really knew about street tattoos, they would have noticed the crown on his arm had a single star. He was a street captain.

If anyone was really looking at them both, really paying attention, they would notice that Colin and Veranix had the same eyes. Their noses would match, too, if Colin's hadn't been broken two or three times. Their fathers had been twins, so it was only natural that, as cousins, they would have some resemblance.

Colin kept his eyes down, paying no one in the place any mind. If anyone in the bar looked at him, they would have thought he was muttering into his beer.

Anyone but Veranix. Veranix was looking right at his lips.

You hit the fish cannery, didn't you?

Even just reading his lips, Veranix could tell that his cousin was annoyed.

Veranix let a slow, soft breath escape his lips, then lightly shaped the breath with magic. No professor at U of M taught him this. The hard part wasn't shaping the breath, it was making the magic so quiet that no one else would notice it. The only other mage Veranix knew in the Rose & Bush was Delmin, but there could be others. Even if only Delmin noticed, he would ask why Veranix was doing magic in the bar. Delmin was very good at sensing
numina
shifts, so doing magic behind his back was especially challenging.

The breath took shape and flew across the bar to his cousin's ears.

“You knew I was going to, Colin. Did it draw any heat?”

Of course it did.
Colin mouthed the words so hard he spat in his beer, but he didn't look up.

“How did it even come back to Aventil?”

Didn't just come to Aventil, I hear. Went all around. Word is Fenmere is on fire with rage.

“Over a cannery back office? I only took a few papers. Most of it is meaningless.”

I think it's the insult that anyone dared touch his stuff.

“His problem. I'm glad he's angry.”

He might not care who is responsible, you know, and just lash out.

“Well, I'm hitting him on the Inemar side tonight, so he won't look this way.”

Tonight? In Inemar?

“He's got a—” was all Veranix had a chance to respond with when Delmin sat back down, dropping a plate of sausages and bread in front of him.

“Stew's coming,” Delmin said. “You all right? You look like you're dozing off again.” Veranix snapped his attention to Delmin.

“Right, yeah,” Veranix said. “Just need food, I guess.”

“I'm sure,” Delmin said as he dug in. He leaned in and whispered, “Blazes, I can tell you're tired. You're causing
numina
swirls. Eat up and focus.”

Veranix looked over to the table in the far corner, but Colin was already gone.

T
HE NIGHT WAS
unseasonably cool as Veranix slinked in the shadow of Almers Hall. The waning white moon was still nearly full, and the blood moon was a little over a quarter lit. The grounds of the campus were bright enough that he didn't want to risk being seen running across the lawn. At this hour, few people would be watching, but the ones who would be were prefects. He didn't need any trouble from them right now. Rellings had done a lights-out check at ten bells, which he had never done before, and then another check at eleven bells. After that, two fourth-years got in his face and told him to cut it out and let them sleep. Veranix had crafted an illusion of himself sleeping in his bed, and hoped it would be enough to pass if Rellings looked in his room.

Shadows and bushes kept him hidden all the way to the carriage house. The door was open a crack. Quietly he slipped inside.

“I can't believe you're going out again,” Kaiana said. She was sitting on a bale of hay, reading a book by the weak light of her oil lamp. She didn't even look up at Veranix. “Aren't you exhausted?”

“I caught a couple naps,” Veranix said.

Kaiana absentmindedly pushed a bundle toward him with her foot. He picked it up and unwrapped the clothes and gear from it. He stripped off his uniform and got dressed.

“New shirt?” he asked her, taking a moment to examine the maroon pullover before putting it on.

“The other one stank of fish, so I burned it with the refuse. Same with the pants. The rest were salvageable.”

“Kaiana!”

“I'm not your washer woman.”

“I don't expect you to be. But . . . you were supposed to give that money to the church.”

“And I did, most of it. A few crowns went into covering your expenses. That isn't wrong.”

Veranix shook his head. That wasn't right. “You shouldn't be doing that. If we need money, I have the living stipend of my scholarship.”

“Which isn't that much. There's nothing wrong with spending a little of Fenmere's money to fight him.” She sighed. “Is this really worth it tonight?”

“The notes gave me a time tonight, and a specific dock. It has to be an
effitte
delivery.”

She looked up from her book, her eyes wide. “You really think so?”

“It would have to be, wouldn't it?” Veranix buttoned up his dark leather vest. “What else would be coming by boat in the middle of the night?”

“How much do you think it'll be?”

“No clue.” Boots and gloves on.

Kaiana's dark eyes narrowed. “Burn the whole boat.”

“Maybe,” Veranix said. “I'll have to see.” He hung his quiver and bow over his shoulder.

“Veranix—” she said, her voice rising. When it came to
effitte
, her temper was as hot as Veranix's, and with good reason. Her father lay up on the fifth floor of the Lower Trenn Ward, eyes open with no spark behind them. Veranix's mother was in the same place, but she was blameless, force-fed
effitte
until she was an empty shell. Kai couldn't say that about her dad, his brain burned out from years on the
effitte
hook.

“Kai, you know I want that junk off the streets as bad as you do. But I need to see what's really happening before I—”

“I know,” She picked up his belt and staff. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He strapped the belt on and took the staff from her. “Don't wait up.”

“I never do,” she said, smiling slightly. “Get out there.”

He went back out the door, and with two quick jumps, he was on top of the campus wall. Crouching, he eased some slow and quiet magic into his legs. With that, he was off, bounding toward the river a block at a time.

The Pellistar Docks were up north in the Inemar district, near the Little East, along the riverbank between the Great Maradaine Bridge and the Upper Bridge. It was out of Fenmere's territory. He might have an iron grip in Dentonhill, but his influence waned sharply on the other side of Oscana Avenue. That suited Veranix well. Whatever Fenmere was up to at Pellistar Docks, he wouldn't be able to do it in the open, and he couldn't send too many of his goons without the Inemar bosses noticing. Or Constabulary, who took their jobs a little more seriously in that neighborhood.

That also meant Veranix had to cross through ten blocks of Dentonhill. His magical method, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, was fast but unconventional. If anyone happened to be looking up, it would draw notice. A few witnesses, and a few threatening questions from Fenmere's men, and someone might trace him back to the University. Veranix didn't need—no one needed—for Fenmere to muscle in on the campus. Despite that risk, Veranix decided he needed speed more than caution tonight.

A few more jumps and he was in Inemar. He had heard no shouts, cries, or gasps, so he presumed he had gone unseen.

Inemar was the oldest part of the city; a few of the buildings were nearly two thousand years old. The neighborhood was crammed and crowded, mismatched buildings pressed together, tiny alleys leading nowhere. The streets still had plenty of activity, even at this hour. Including the occasional green and red coats of the city Constabulary.

One of the church towers rang a bell. One bell past midnight.

Veranix didn't know this part of the city very well. He had only a rough idea where the Pellistar Docks were, and he didn't have time to search. Making his way to the river, he dropped down to the ground in an alley next to a pub. He hated the risk he was going to have to take, but he didn't think he had much choice. He was going to have to ask directions.

He would have to look different to do it, as much as he disliked that. Most of the time when he was out on the streets, he'd use just a whisper of magic to hold his hood in place, and keep its shadow over his face in a way that obscured his features from any angle. That was easy magic; he could do it in his sleep. But no one would tell a mysterious hooded figure how to get to the Pellistar Docks, and he couldn't risk having his actual face being seen this close to where he was about to hit.

Using magic to make real changes to one's appearance, even minor ones, took a fair amount of concentration, and that had to be maintained the entire time. It was not unlike holding one's breath. Unconsciously, Veranix did just that as he altered his short brown hair into red, grown out to his shoulders. His eyes went from green to blue, and a beard grew in over his face. His whole face felt like a hundred bees were walking on it.

He couldn't hold it long, and he hoped he hadn't made anything into a color that looked unnatural.

He went around the corner just as two men walked out of the pub.

“Oy, friends!” he said, making his best attempt at a Waish accent. Inemar was filled with foreigners, what with the Little East only a few blocks away, so it wouldn't seem too strange. He hoped it was good enough to fool these two. “Where might the Pellistar Docks be?”

“Pellistar?” one of them slurred. “You looking for a barge this late?”

“That I am,” Veranix said. “I've got a berth on one, leaving inland in the morning. I spent the evening exploring yer fair city, and I've gotten myself lost. I just need to find my bed for the night.”

“Hmm,” the other one said, “It's over there, two blocks, across from the butcher sign.”

“Much obliged, Druth friends,” Veranix nodded and walked away. His magical facade was melting, he couldn't hold it any longer.

“How far inland, friend?” the first man called from behind him. “Itasiana? Fencal?”

“Just to Delikan for now,” Veranix said, not turning around. His heart started racing. He knew his eyes had already changed, his beard pulling back into his face. He couldn't let them see that, but he couldn't run off or ignore them either. “From there, who can say?”

“Ah, for the bird hunting,” the man said, patting Veranix on the shoulder, resting his hand on the strap of his bow and quiver.

“That's right,” Veranix said. “It's quite the sport there.” As a child he had passed through Delikan during the pheasant-hunting season, it was a huge event. That truth should keep the story unremarkable. He kept his attention on maintaining his long red hair, letting the rest go. He had to get away from these two without them thinking anything strange was going on, or the whole night would be skunked. Panic clawed at his stomach, making it all the harder to hold the change.

“Word of advice, Waish friend. Next time, leave your bow on your boat when you come into town.”

“Well said. I'll be off now.” Veranix took a few more steps away.

“Good hunting, then.” Their footsteps went the other way. Veranix hoped neither one looked back, as his hair was short and brown again.

He hurried along the road, keeping his head lowered. Two blocks over, he found the butcher shop, and across from it, the Pellistar Docks.

A low warehouse stood at the foot of a gangway. Spotting a few crates near the wall, Veranix scurried up to the roof on pure muscle power. He didn't want to waste any magic right now, not when he wasn't sure what he was about to face.

From his vantage point, Dock 12 was easy to spot. Every dock on the wharf was well marked, but there were two lamps hanging on the sign for twelve. A barge was docked, tied up and still. No one was about.

Two bells rang.

Nothing happened for some time.

Veranix kept his position. Waiting was fine. It let him regain his strength. The scent of the river, though, made him glad he lived on the University campus. It was probably worse downstream on the west side of Maradaine, over in Benson Court, where the sewers fed into the river.

Two men in dark cloaks entered the wharf and, looking about nervously, went to the boat docked at twelve. One of them was carrying a satchel.

Veranix sat up, making sure his hood was in place. He drew one arrow, readying it in his bow.

“Oy!” one man called in a hoarse whisper, “You there?”

A skinny man stepped out from the barge. Even from this distance, with little light, Veranix could see he was old and scarred.

“You're late,” the old man said.

“There's been . . . difficulties,” the man with the satchel said.

“Long as there's no difficulties with the money, then the boss gets his package.”

“No, none,” the other man said. He stepped into the lamplight. Veranix recognized him as the man who first caught him in the cannery the night before. He was now sporting a large bruise on the side of his face. “We want the package.”

“That's the money, then? I don't have to count it, do I?”

“Notes of exchange, from a variety of reputable houses,” the man with the satchel said. “Forty thousand crowns.”

Veranix resisted the urge to let out a low whistle. Forty thousand crowns was a ridiculous amount of money. This was either a huge shipment of
effitte
, or something else altogether. But something that was worth that much to Fenmere was all the more valuable to keep out of his hands.

“Drop the satchel and open it up,” the old man said. They did so. He glanced at the contents and nodded. “Good enough.”

“Where's our package?”

“Over there. It's in a sack at the bottom of the river, tied to that rope with the blue cloth.”

“The bottom of the river?” the first of Fenmere's thugs said. “Are you crazy? Won't that damage it?”

“Won't do nothing to it.” The old man grabbed the satchel. He stepped back on his barge, and began to untie the rope holding it to the pier.

“Where are you going?” the bruised thug asked.

“No business of yours. You boys have some hauling up to do.”

Veranix was tempted to make his move now. If he could take out all three, he could get the package and the forty thousand crowns. In the back of his head, he already thought of places he could drop off that money. Saint Julian's Church. Aventil Orphanage. The Lower Trenn Street Ward. Forty thousand crowns could spread pretty far.