Ship of Smoke and Steel (The Wells of Sorcery #1)(10)



“I’ll head back, then.” He has his own place, down on Larker’s Row. “Meet at the square in the morning?”

I cock my head. “Or you could come up.”

“Or I could come up.” He looks at me with a widening grin.

It’s probably a bad idea, but I feel good enough that I don’t care. I tug at the collar of my kizen. “If you’re coming, hurry up. I need to get out of this thing.”

He doesn’t take much convincing. I turn on him as soon as he closes the door behind us, kissing him while I tug irritably at the knots that hold the kizen closed. Sometimes I’m tempted to take a Melos blade to the thing, I swear to the Blessed One. Hagan helps, with his strong, clever fingers, and I sigh with relief as the silk slides off and puddles on the floor. Then I sigh again, for other reasons.



* * *



“You really don’t care, do you?” he says.

He’s standing by the window, where the light is fading through the rag curtain, highlighting his smooth, lean muscle. I’m lying on the sleeping mat, sweat cooling pleasantly on my skin.

“Care about what?”

“About Shiro.”

“Oh, blessed above.” I sit up, cross-legged, and glare at him. “Do you want me to lie to you? Should I tell you I’m hurting deep inside?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“I’m just trying to understand you.” He shakes his head. “We’ve worked together, what? Three years?”

“Four, by now.”

“Four years. I knew Shiro for two months and I knew him better than I know you.”

“Remember the first thing I said when I hired you,” I tell him.

“Right. No personal questions.” He turns away from the window and comes back to the mat. “I don’t want to pry. I just wish I knew what you were thinking.”

“What’s to understand? I hurt the people I’m supposed to hurt and collect the money and pass it along.”

“The perfect ward boss?” He gives a sour smile. “Like a little clockwork machine.”

“That’s right.” Even Hagan doesn’t know about Tori, of course. As far as he’s concerned, the house in the Second Ward is just another part of my business. “Look. Shiro was just a kid I hired to back me up. If I’m going to feel bad about him, why not feel bad about those poor rotscum working for Firello?”

“They were trying to kill you.”

“Because he paid them to back him up. Just because somebody took my money instead of someone else’s I’m supposed to be broken up about him?”

“What if I’d gotten stabbed, instead of Shiro?” Hagan makes a face. “You know what, don’t answer that.”

There’s a long silence, as the last of the light from the window dies. The room goes dim, only the aggregate glow of the never-sleeping city outside providing any illumination. I grab Hagan by the shoulders and drag him down, my lips finding his. He only resists for a moment.

It’s easier than trying to figure out what to say to him. I don’t rotting understand people.

It’s probably a mistake, sleeping with Hagan. Not the sex, exactly. I’d never pretended to innocence, and when I was old enough to feel the urge I’d gone to a ghultouched—swallowing my disgust at dealing with such a creature—and for a ward against unintended consequences. And it’s not really Hagan’s fault, either. He’s a good lieutenant, easy to get along with, a good rut. I like him. Which is the problem.

If it had been him instead of Shiro, would I have done what needed to be done? Or would I have gotten stupid? I don’t want him to understand me. I want him to have my back.

It’s a good image he used, and it stays in my mind as we clutch and kiss and gasp. A clockwork machine, like toys they make for little rich boys. A windup doll. It’s all I want to be, all I need to be. No room for doubt or sadness. Just a machine.



* * *



When I open my eyes, it’s to the sound of boots on the stairs outside. There’s a pause, then the mutter of voices.

“Rot,” I swear, coming fully awake. Hagan’s eyes are open, but he looks confused. “Get up! I think—”

There’s a splintering crash as the door bursts inward. Early-morning sunlight pours in, framing black-clad figures. A half dozen of them line up, three on either side of the doorway. I get to my feet as a seventh strolls in.

“Gelmei Isoka,” he says.

He’s wearing lacquered black armor from head to toe, with a subtle inlaid pattern that glitters in the sun, a pair of swords hanging at his side. His helmet includes a drape of blackened chain mail in front of his face. The others are the same. They might as well have come off a printing press.

“Who in the Rot are you?” I say, standing naked on the sleeping mat, Hagan still crouched at my feet. But even as I say it, I realize I already know. I’ve lived my entire life in fear of this moment.

The Immortals have found me.





3


Their leader doesn’t respond to my question. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, chain mask jingling, and says, “You will come with us. Do not attempt to resist.”

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