Steel's Edge

Richard stopped, and Charlotte paused next to him. The continuous wall of buildings here was particularly ramshackle, the awning pale and weather-bleached from a once deep rust to a pale, sad orange. Loose lumber had been nailed to the wall in every direction.



“Why did we stop?” Charlotte murmured.



“There are sentries watching us,” he said. “Across the street on the roof, one on the right in the boat, and there is one directly above us on the balcony, listening to everything we say. They will report to Jason, and we’ll wait here and see if he decides to see us.”



She leaned closer to him. “And if he doesn’t?”



“Then I’ll knock,” Richard said.



The wall of the house behind them slid open. An old woman emerged, wearing a shapeless red dress and a red scarf on her hair. She waved at them with a wrinkled brown hand and disappeared inside, into the gloom.



“We’ve been invited.” Richard smiled.



“Indeed.”



“Follow me, please.”



He strode through the narrow hallway. The dog trotted in after him. She was last through the door, in command of Rear Ward, or whatever the proper military term was. Charlotte followed the dog up a short flight of narrow dark stairs, into a hallway, and through another doorway. A spacious room stretched before them, illuminated by the familiar Weird-style lanterns. Shaped like bunches of delicate glowing flowers, the lanterns cascaded from the hooks between the windows near the tall ceiling. An expensive rug stretched across the polished wooden floor to the stone fireplace. In the center, a tea table waited, surrounded by soft chairs upholstered in light leather.



A man sprawled in the largest chair. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his gray shirt. His chest was broad, and his arms, revealed by the short sleeves of his tunic, bulged with muscle. He had to be over six feet tall, and his huge frame dwarfed the chair. His head had been shaved in a series of meticulously spaced strips of various widths that ran from his forehead to the nape of his neck; the effect was alternating stripes of glossy hair and smooth, shaved, light brown scalp.



His features would’ve been handsome in a masculine, square-jawed, leader-of-the-pack way, but a scar covered most of the left side of his face. A burn, Charlotte diagnosed. Not by direct application—either from steam, or more likely, flash-magic heat. Deeper lines crisscrossed the scar. Probably from a grate of some sort that had covered the heat source. So this was Jason Parris. She had expected someone older, but he appeared to be in his mid-twenties.



The man’s eyes, startling green against his darker skin, surveyed Richard and paused on her. Intelligent eyes. He radiated power and menace, and when she met his stare, his eyebrows crept up a hair. Perhaps he had expected her to flinch.



A girl stood next to him, as lean and slight as he was bulky. She looked too young to be here, seventeen, perhaps eighteen. Her face was smooth and a shade darker than his. Her hair hung over her face in stiff, straight locks, the result of some sort of hair product. She wore close-fitting jeans and a gray sweatshirt with HARVARD printed on it in red letters. It had to have come from the Broken.



“The Hunter,” Jason said. His voice was deep and resonant, and he spoke in an unhurried manner. “I feel honored. Do you feel honored, Miko?”



Miko said nothing.



“See, she feels honored.” Jason spread his massive arms. His voice had a slight mocking quality to it. “You smell like piss and you look even worse.”



Jason’s stare slid over to her. His light eyes widened. “Richard, you have a girl. And you got a dog together. Where are you registered? I will buy you a toaster.”



“The dog is hers,” Richard said.



The wolfripper showed Jason his big teeth.



“So, what can we do for the mighty Hunter?”



Richard reached into his bag.



Miko leaned forward, focused.



A man stepped from the doorway, a crossbow in his hands.



Richard extracted Voshak’s bleached-blond braid from the bag and tossed it to the crime lord. Parris snatched it from the air and looked at the blond strands. “When?”



“About ten hours ago.”



“Anybody left from his crew?”



“No.”



Parris glanced at the crossbowman and tossed the braid into the air. A bolt whistled and bit into the opposite wall, pinning the braid securely in place.



The crime lord turned to Richard. “You bring me such fine gifts, Hunter. What do you want?”



“There is a slave ship docking north of the city at eleven tonight. They expect a crew of slaves and slavers to board it,” Richard said.



Parris leaned forward, his eyes suddenly predatory. “They will take them to the Market.”



“Yes. One small problem: the slaver crew is dead, and they’d failed to capture any slaves. If someone was in charge of a rough crew, that someone could take their place.”



The crime lord smiled. It was a chilling smile. “If only we knew a man with such a crew.”



Richard shrugged. “He might be a valuable man to know. He would become quite wealthy, but more importantly, he would be the man who sacked the Market.”



Parris raised one eyebrow.



“The security on the island is geared toward dealing with runaway slaves and irate customers. They won’t expect an assault from a couple of dozen armed fighters. It’s an opportunity for money from the slave trade, wealth from the buyer’s agents, and a chance for revenge.”



“Risky,” Parris said. “We don’t know how well the place is guarded. I was half-dead when they dragged me through it, but I remember guards.”



“‘No guts, no glory,’” Richard quoted.



Risky was an understatement, Charlotte reflected. This plan Richard had hatched made a hardened criminal pause, yet he didn’t even mention it to her beforehand. Unquestionable obedience was one thing, not being used to her full potential was another. She would have to point this out to him when they were alone.



“What share do you want?” Parris asked.



“None. I want the bookkeeper, and I want him alive.”



The crime lord pondered it. She could sense Parris’s hesitation. They needed to offer him something to tip the scales in their favor. What could they possibly propose to him? What would a crime lord be interested in? Money, of course, but even if she could get access to her finances, she doubted money alone would make him risk his life and his people.



Her gaze paused on his face. The scar stood out against his skin like a brand. It must’ve made it difficult to look in the mirror every morning.



“How did you get your scar?” Charlotte asked.



Parris turned to her. “A gift from Voshak. I’d broken out of the cargo hold. The plan was to take a swim, but the plan failed, and Voshak had his boys hold me against the ship’s heating unit. Tried to teach me a lesson.” He flashed his teeth at her. “I’m a hard learner.”



“Would you like me to remove it?” she asked.



Parris raised his eyebrows. “You can do that?”



“Yes.” The skin was the easiest of all body tissues to heal.



Parris pondered the idea for a moment. “Thanks, but I think I’ll keep it. It’s part of me now.”



Miko leaned over to him and whispered something, her face urgent.



Jason frowned. “Yes, but you’d have to make it look old.”



Miko whispered again.



Parris considered it. “If she heals me and I get all profits from sacking the Market, you have a deal.”



“Before she does anything, she needs rest and food,” Richard said.



They were talking about her as if she weren’t even in the room.



Parris stared at him. “Do I look like a Holiday Inn to you?”



“Eight hours of uninterrupted rest behind a solid door, a fresh change of clothes, food, and clean water to wash up,” Richard said. “Those are our conditions.”



Parris sighed. “Fine. But if my face isn’t fixed by noon, you’ll be resting six feet under for a lot longer than eight hours.”



* * *



CHARLOTTE followed Richard and a woman armed with a sword up the stairs. They walked into another narrow hallway, and the woman stopped by a door and swung it open. Richard stepped inside, and Charlotte and the dog followed him into a small suite. Perfectly clean, with pale, almost golden wooden paneling on the walls and large windows framed by green curtains, the room could’ve belonged to any of the nicer hotels. A large bed dominated the floor, its linens and bedspread an inviting light yellow. Two stacks of clothes lay on the bed. To the right, another door opened to a small bathroom.



A single bed in a single room. Jason was assuming they were a couple.



The dog flopped on the rug and sniffed at the floor. Richard shut the door, locked it, and lowered a heavy wooden bar in place, securing the door as if it were an entrance to an old castle.



His skin had turned sallow. Grime stained his face. An abominable stench rose from his clothes. He had to be squeezing the last drops of energy from his exhausted body to remain upright.



“I don’t mind waiting for the bathroom,” she said.



He bowed his head slightly. “Neither do I.”



She crossed her arms.



“You agreed to follow my orders,” he said.



“The order of our bathing has nothing to do with our mission.”



“Charlotte,” he said, his voice tired. “I’m not going to shower before you.”



The sound of her name coming from him startled her. Something about the way he said it touched off the same feminine flutter she had felt when he called her beautiful. It was the strangest feeling, a mix of anxiety, surprise, and pleasure, soaked in excitement. But nothing about this made sense. She was covered in blood and dirt. Not only that, he had recently watched her kill people, then go through their pockets. Romance had to be the last thing on his mind and should have been the last on hers.



“Richard,” she said, her voice firm. “You smell awful. Please have mercy on my nose.”



“You deserve the first turn at the bathroom. Offering to fix his face was a stroke of genius.”