In the Shadow of Lightning

8

Enforcers for the guild-families of Ossa fulfilled many different roles. Most were mere thugs: foot soldiers who could wield a cudgel and didn’t mind breaking legs or skulls or property. Some were bodyguards or security. The most trusted of enforcers worked as personal couriers, taking contracts and correspondence between guild-family matriarchs and patriarchs.

Kizzie had always been good at two things. Her favorite was making Vorcien clients feel comfortable. Did a warehouse get burned down? Kizzie would hold the client’s hand, commiserate, and liaise with the National Guard investigators. In her hands, an otherwise unimportant client would think the Vorcien had their best interests at heart at all times. Sometimes they really did, and sometimes Kizzie put on a good show. It helped that she had the Vorcien name and silic symbol, even if she wasn’t a “real” member of the family.

Her other skill set – the one she’d had to rely on more since falling out of favor – was finding people.

She started her work for Demir immediately, and spent the first day discovering everything she could about the one man who’d already confessed to having a hand in Adriana Grappo’s death. He was a Grent national named Espenzi Darfoor; a well-known blaggard from a family of medium importance within the Grent government. He was a gambler and womanizer with a dozen successful duels under his belt. He had no public connection to anyone in Ossa.

So why, Kizzie wondered, did he come to Ossa to kill Adriana?

The official explanation – the one that the Cinders had torn out of him using powerful enough shackleglass to drive him mad – was that he’d been paid a hefty sum by the Duke of Grent to participate in the killing. Was that true? Could Kizzie trust the Cinders, or the Inner Assembly, to actually tell the truth? Or was it all a convenient lie for a convenient war? The thought was a discomforting one, but Kizzie tried to focus on the facts as she knew them rather than jump to conclusions.

Six people, all meeting in Assembly Square, wearing masks to kill a well-liked reformer. As Demir had intimated, that was a conspiracy. Why a conspiracy, rather than just a good old-fashioned knife-in-the-dark assassination? With Espenzi in Cinder custody, insane from shackleglass, Kizzie would have to find his co-conspirators in order to get her answers.

Kizzie started at the beginning, looking for any clues that might lead down an untrodden path. She found the coach service that brought Espenzi into Ossa. She spoke with the waiter at the restaurant he ate at the night before, and then the concierge at the hotel he stayed at. She even tracked down the café he ordered tea from the following morning. She followed his footsteps perfectly all the way up until an hour before Adriana’s death.

He had no clandestine meetings with hooded figures. Not at the restaurant, café, or hotel. To everyone that had met him, he was simply a middle-aged man slipping into Ossa for a brief change of scenery. He wasn’t even armed.

It was frustratingly mundane. Not a single clue that Kizzie could use to find one of the other killers.

The following morning she changed her tactics, heading down to Assembly Square in person. The square was a busy place, filled with politicians, clerks, loitering bodyguards, and beggars. Winter solstice celebrations were still going on, causing impromptu parades of masked revelers, following the bread wagons as free food and drink were passed out to all who wanted it. Kizzie used gossip columns and newspaper reports to rebuild Adriana’s murder in her mind’s eye, trying to figure out in which directions the killers would have scattered to escape a passing National Guardsman.

She crossed the square, looking for a little nook underneath the towering statue of one of the founders of Ossa. The nook was barely two feet square and maybe six deep, and it was the home of a beggar who called herself Madame-under-Magna.

“Hey Courina,” Kizzie said, squatting down next to the nook and peering inside. It was hard to tell in the bright morning sunlight reflecting off the marble, but the nook was crammed with blankets, newspapers, and the odds and ends a beggar might collect to survive the mild Ossan winter.

A pair of beady little eyes stared back at Kizzie, and a tiny, wizened hand was thrust out of the nook. “You will address me as Madame-under-Magna!”

Kizzie glanced up at the statue rising above them. It was, she realized, quite anatomically correct, despite wearing a long tunic. “Sorry. How are you, Madame-under-Magna?” She placed a heavy coin in that wizened little hand.

The hand and coin disappeared immediately. “Well enough, Kissandra. I heard you cleaned out the Castle Hill Garroters.”

“You hear a lot of things.”

“Poor Iasmos. What a nice little boy. Dorry was the cruel one, the real leader. But they’re all gone now!” There was a strange little giggle. “I hear and I see, Kissandra. You want my services? I can tell you about a Stavri mistress or a corrupt Foreign Legion secretary.” The eyes seemed to grow a little closer. “There are things that walk in the night. I have seen them, but to tell would be a king’s ransom!” Madame-under-Magna cackled loudly. Kizzie had never actually been able to tell if Madame-under-Magna was insane, or just a good actress.

“I’m hoping you can tell me about Adriana Grappo’s death. Who was behind it? Spies? Revolutionaries? A Fulgurist Society?”

Madame-under-Magna made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Oh, that I cannot do.”

“You didn’t see the killing?”

“I did, in fact! I saw her stop to check her pocket watch, as was her habit at the bottom of the stairs over there. I saw the killers flock, and I was the first to scream for help as the cudgels fell.”

“If you saw it all, then why can’t you tell me about it? I can pay.”

“Because the Cinders have already bought my silence. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

Kizzie settled back on her haunches, watching the afternoon light reflect off those beady little eyes. Madame-under-Magna was one of the most reliable sources of information in the city; a truly neutral figure who actually followed her codes of silence. Once someone paid her to withhold information, there was no getting it out of her short of shackleglass. Kizzie did have that piece that Demir gave her, but was not about to inflict it upon Madame-under-Magna, and certainly not in public.

Kizzie asked, “Can you at least tell me whether the facts presented to the public are true?”

“Ah. Hmm.” Madame-under-Magna stared at her for a few moments before answering. “I would not break my contract with the Cinders to tell you that the facts are, indeed, true.”

That was a surprise. “Six killers?” Kizzie asked. “And Espenzi hired by the Duke of Grent?”

“All true.”

Kizzie thought she saw a fiendish little smile in the dark nook. Her informant was leaving something out. Kizzie considered the possibilities for a few minutes, crouching in silence beside the statue, before asking, “Was Espenzi caught on purpose? Offered to the Cinders to let the others get away?”

“You’re a clever girl, Kissandra. I’m sad you didn’t come to me before the Cinders.”

Kizzie snorted in frustration and considered her options. The Cinders swept through right after Adriana’s murder. Kizzie would get a similar response from every beggar, busker, food vendor, and loiterer. Any possible witness had already been threatened or paid into silence. Espenzi was a dead end, and so was Madame-under-Magna. Although … perhaps Kizzie was just asking the wrong question.

“If I can’t ask you about Adriana’s murder, then who should I ask?” Kizzie held out two more heavy coins.

“Very clever girl,” Madame-under-Magna said again. She sniffed. “I have a cold.”

Kizzie fished in her pocket until she found a good-quality piece of cureglass and added it to the two coins. The hand snatched all three from her palm, and Madame-under-Magna cackled again. “You should ask Torlani the Breadman.” A wizened little hand thrust into the sun to make a go away gesture. “No more questions.”

Kizzie found Torlani the Breadman in one of the dozens of alleys that separated the various government buildings of Assembly Square. It was a narrow track, crammed with vendors, with barely enough space for two people to pass each other. The Breadman had a small cart at the far end. He was an old man, bent from years of reaching into ovens, his cart constantly being loaded by boys who rushed back and forth between him and his bakery on the other side of the district. He wore a tiny nose piercing; a little piece of low-quality auraglass, no doubt in the hope that it made him seem more enticing than his competition.

Torlani eyeballed Kizzie as she approached, taking in the stiletto at her belt and the silic sigil on her right hand. “You’re Kissandra Vorcien,” he said as she glanced over the various loaves. She found a small loaf, particularly crusty with burnt edges, and plucked it up, handing him a banknote.

“I am,” she replied.

“I heard there was a gang over in Castle Hill stealing from you folks.”

Glassdamn, word sure got around quick these days. “Not anymore.” She bit into the bread, chewed, and grinned at him over it. “This is really good,” she said between bites.

“Thank you.” He looked down at her silic sigil again. “I’m not looking for protection.”

Kizzie snorted. “And I’m not here to shake you down.”

“Ah,” the old man replied, visibly relaxing. “My mistake.”

She made a magnanimous gesture. “No offense taken.” She glanced around to make sure the other vendors were far enough away not to overhear her and said, “I was told you might know something about Adriana Grappo’s murder.”

Torlani went white. It was impressive, really. His whole face went slack, his eyes filling with fright, hands shaking slightly. “This … this is my little alley here. I was here when she was killed. Couldn’t possibly know anything about it.” He paused, seemed to gather himself. “Who told you that I did?” he demanded.

“Who do you think?” Kizzie snorted.

“Madame-under-Magna. That bitch! That…” Torlani made a frustrated sound. “I’ve already told the Cinders everything I know. I have nothing to add, and certainly not to a Vorcien.”

Kizzie took a step back to examine the alley as a whole, then glanced toward the center of Assembly Square. If six people murdered Adriana and then scattered, it was almost guaranteed that one of them would run down this alley. Kizzie scoffed to herself and looked Torlani in the eye. “You saw one of the killers.”

“I … have nothing to say!”

“I’m not asking on behalf of the Vorcien,” she said.

Torlani frowned in a moment of confusion. “Then who?”

“Demir Grappo hired me.”

At the very least, this information seemed to catch Torlani off guard. A dozen different emotions crossed his face in the space of a few moments, from surprise to consternation. “Why you?”

“Because we were childhood friends, and I have a reputation for personal integrity.” It wasn’t a boast. Everyone knew she’d fallen out of favor for exactly that reason. She pulled a calling card out of the pocket of her jacket, putting on an air that made it seem as if he were just one of dozens of leads. “You can ask around if you like. If there’s something you’d like to get off your chest, just find me at this address.”

Torlani didn’t reach out for the card. He licked his lips. She could see immediately that he wanted to tell her something. It was on the tip of his tongue, straining to get out. All Kizzie needed to do was coax. He said, “The Cinders paid me well not to make a fuss.”

“I’m not asking you to make a fuss,” Kizzie replied gently. “Just tell me what you know.”

“Adriana … was a secret patron of mine.”

It was Kizzie’s turn to be caught off guard. Secret patrons were not common. The whole point of the client-patron relationship was to publicly display prestige, clout, and allegiance. A secret patron might get a cut of the profits from, say, a bakery, but they couldn’t tell their friends that they had ownership in the best bakery in town. The client, on the other hand, couldn’t take advantage of their patron’s name to prevent shakedowns or get better service from their suppliers.

“Why secret?” Kizzie asked.

“Independence is important to me,” Torlani replied with a sniff. “Adriana financially supported my bakery on six different occasions, and sent her enforcers around anonymously when the Dorlani got pushy. I owe … I owed her my livelihood.”

Kizzie picked her next words carefully. “Is there anything you want to tell her son about the way she died?”

She could see Torlani wrestling with himself. He picked up one of his own loaves of bread and bit into it, chewing savagely, muttering to himself. He swallowed and said, “If this comes back to me, I will deny everything.”

“I’m not doing this for a magistrate,” Kizzie said bluntly. “Nobody is going to know who it came from.”

He hesitated for several more long moments before he spoke quietly. “Fine. I was standing just here at the moment of her murder. I heard yelling from the square, and when I looked” – he glanced toward the other end of the alley – “a man wearing a plain white mask came sprinting from that way. He tripped right in front of my cart and his mask came off for just a few seconds. I pretended not to see, but he didn’t even look at me. He put his mask back on and took off.”

“And you recognized him?”

“Of course I did. He’s bought bread from me before.”

Kizzie felt her heartbeat quicken. “And?”

“It was Churian Dorlani.”

Kizzie felt her knees go just a little bit weak. Churian Dorlani was not, as these things went, a very important person. He was a mid-ranking cousin in the Dorlani guild-family. The fact that he had the Dorlani name at all was what caused a sweat to break out in the small of Kizzie’s back. They were one of the five most powerful guild-families in Ossa, and their matriarch sat on the Inner Assembly.

This was supposed to be a Grent conspiracy. Why was a guild-family member involved?

“Did you tell the Cinders?” she asked.

Torlani shook his head. “Of course not. Outing one of the Dorlani to the Cinders would be a death sentence.”

“But you told me. Even if you owed Adriana your livelihood…” Kizzie stopped herself. Was she so surprised by this she was questioning the intelligence of her own witness?

Instead of being annoyed, Torlani simply shook his head. “I sold a lot of bread to Adriana and to Demir. People have tried to forget him, but I remember when he was the most important person in Ossa. I remember how hard he tried to get people to see him as a politician instead of a glassdancer. There aren’t many people who pass by my cart who want to change the world for the better, and I make note of those that do. If Demir wants to avenge his mother I will aid him in what small way I can.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Kizzie pulled a wad of banknotes out of her pocket – Demir could afford to be generous – and slipped them onto Torlani’s tray, taking another loaf of bread with her. She walked back out into the square again, pondering her predicament. She’d half expected some guild-family to be involved. But the Dorlani …

This job had suddenly gotten a lot more complicated and a lot more dangerous. Part of her wanted to go back to Demir, return his money, and tell him to deal with it himself. She buried that inclination. She was not a coward. She’d taken on a job and she would damn well see it through.

She would have to be careful from here on out.