The Broken Eye
Page 30

She was back at the docks ten minutes later. When you came in to port, all your awe was taken by the city’s domes and stars and the Chromeria’s seven gleaming towers. Coming to it from the city was different altogether. To call the docks extensive was an understatement. Big Jasper was one of the largest cities in the world, and almost all of its supplies had to be brought in by ship. The system looked like chaos to the uninitiated, though Teia had once heard a fellow student whose father was a stevedore wax poetical about the symmetry and art of it all. To her, it looked like an ant swarm. Thousands of people crisscrossing, a snarl of ships of every size, carts streaming in and out, queues of burly men going in one way, and women with abacuses ticking off beads for purposes Teia couldn’t even guess at.
Teia walked straight up to a man who was answering laborers’ questions, directing them this way and that. “The Red Gull?” she asked, lowering her voice an octave.
“Pier Twelve, green side.”
Telling him that ‘green side’ didn’t help a color-blind person would just draw more attention to her, so Teia kept her mouth shut and walked.
The Red Gull was already docked, and before she even got onto Pier Twelve she saw a dandy in a wide hat of a couple different shades and yellow. Her man. Amazing luck.
He looked slightly the worse for wear from his time on the ship, relieved to have solid ground underfoot again. He was whistling.
Teia drew in paryl, cupped loosely in her hand, drafted off center so it decayed rapidly back into its spectrum of light, but now focused in a beam. Relaxed her eyes and ducked her head so the hat’s brim shielded her eyes as much as possible. She had to do it quickly. There was no way she could put on spectacles—which only the wealthy could afford—and maintain her disguise, but if anyone saw her pupils, they’d likely shout.
The light cut through his garments, through his hair, though it wasn’t powerful enough from this distance to go through his heavy leather gloves or boots. She watched him as he went past.
Belt buckle, sword, coins tucked in a breast pocket. All these lit up, white in her vision. But no silver scrollwork document case.
If he had the documents on him, they were either tucked into his boots or gloves or lengthwise beneath his belt—or made of thin enough paper that the paryl went right through them. No matter what, she was darked.
She fell in behind him, following thirty or forty paces back. If he was delivering papers to the Blood Forest embassy, she had about fifteen minutes to make the grab. She knew Big Jasper well, but she didn’t know how well this spy knew it. Neighborhoods between the docks and the embassy district weren’t nearly as bad as those farther north.
The spy walked confidently, though he did check behind himself once in a while. He never looked at a map or asked for directions. So he knew the city.
Teia couldn’t follow him and close the distance while he was being this careful. Disguised as a skinny poor boy in a hat, she could blend in well, but the man was a spy. Surely he’d notice her before she could catch up and steal from him.
If he knew the city, and if he was heading directly to the embassy, there were two alleys between main thoroughfares that he would cut through at different spots.
It was a gamble, but it was the best Teia had.
The spy brushed his left glove, as if reassuring himself that something was still there. That was it. Luck!
Teia peeled off and turned left where two roads diverged. After half a block, she began jogging. It drew attention, but not too much. Apprentices often had to run when performing chores for their masters.
She circled several blocks, jogging fast. The crowds thinned out, and she turned down the street that should intercept the spy. Too late. He was already there, heading across the road, crossing in front of her. Teia cursed quietly, and doubled back.
One last chance. This time, she ran full out to make it to the last alley. She was small enough that she might still have looked like a boy playing. She tried not to let her panic show in her face. She’d only have one chance.
She turned down the cross street and made it to the alley entrance.
Heaving a few deep breaths and trying to calm her nerves and steady her hands, she ducked her head low so her face would be hidden and headed into the alley. He was at the far end, coming toward her. Her heart was pounding so hard it shook her whole frame. There was no one else in the alley. If she were quick, she could intercept him as he passed through a narrow spot. Perfect.
Teia kept her head tilted, hat down, shielding her eyes. There wouldn’t be a whole lot of grace in this one. She would do a bump and grab, and if he didn’t notice immediately, he probably would within a few seconds. There was no crowd here, no distractions. She’d just have to hope she was fast enough to get away. She was already plotting escape routes—but let that be. Pay attention. First thing’s the grab.
She stepped through the narrow spot just as the spy did. She pretended a stumble. He brought his hands up and pushed her away. She grabbed the notes, but it wasn’t clean. She tugged a bit of sleeve, too, and the spy turned as she yanked the letters free. Shit!
And then something happened too fast for her to follow. The shadow of that narrow spot in the alley came alive, detached itself from the very wall it had been part of, and imprisoned her arm.
It whiplashed her back toward the spy. Something warm splattered against her lips and neck. The spy raised his hands, panicked—his throat slashed open, his jugular fountaining blood all over Teia.
Teia pushed the spy away and he fell, gasping like a fish. The shadowed assassin put something into her hand. A bloody knife.
She recognized him by his size and stature and eyes, because he was completely covered otherwise, his cloak drawn tight over his head, the side of the hood hooked closed to make a mask over his face, only his eyes uncovered. Murder Sharp.
He released her, stepped back quickly, stepping over the spy dying at his feet as if there were nothing noteworthy in having murdered a man.
“You’re a murderer now,” he said. “Run, or you’re fucked.” His cloak shimmered, starting around his eyes, and in trails like smoke that raced in spirals down his body, light twinkled and then disappeared.
She heard the scrape of his boot in the alley, but there was nothing there to see. She tried to look in paryl, but she couldn’t control it. She was frozen. She looked at herself—covered in blood, bloody knife in her hand, dying man at her feet.
A sharp sailor’s whistle blew in the air, the three-tone call for help. Unmistakable for anything else. “Good luck,” the air said. She could hear Murder Sharp’s wide grin, even if she couldn’t see it.
Teia stood, paralyzed, for one moment more. She saw a watchman two hundred paces down the alley. He saw her, too, bloody blade in hand, standing over a dead man. She ran.
Chapter 18
Gavin hoped that the ship going in to port would give him a chance to escape. If not that, at least a chance to send a message. And if not that, he hoped that the sailors’ natural braggadocio would serve to get word to the Chromeria for him. But though Gunner might have been half crazy, he wasn’t stupid. After he’d taken the Ilytian galley, they’d headed directly to port. The Ilytian sailors who had survived the attack had been chained to their own oars, replacing the dead slaves, given fresh oars from the supplies on the Bitter Cob, and kept strictly away from the Cob’s crew.