“Are we found?” Hendres asked.
“We’re fine,” Michel responded. “What time did you say it was?”
“A little past one.”
His chest feeling tight, Michel headed down the hall. “I’ve got to go,” he called over his shoulder. “If I’m not back in a couple hours, you should leave the city.”
“Do you need backup?” Hendres asked, a note of concern in her voice.
“Wouldn’t help!” Michel reached the street, looking for a hackney cab, then remembered they were few and far between since the occupation. He shaded his eyes against the hot afternoon sun, pulled his collar up, and went to see Taniel.
Michel crossed the city on foot. With no functional government to pay the pig keepers or the sweepers, the gutters overflowed with shit and trash. Every third person seemed to be a Dynize soldier, while the citizens who would not—or could not—flee with Lady Flint’s army went about their days with eyes cast toward the ground, fear writ plain on their faces. The entire city felt subdued.
Rubble spilled into the street, and whole blocks had burned down in the fires caused by rioters and shelling. Only a concerted effort by volunteer fire brigades had kept the entire city from going up in smoke, though there were places where the smell of soot was so thick no one dared go out without a handkerchief over their face.
Michel lowered his eyes and tipped his hat to every passing Dynize patrol. The strangely armored soldiers rarely took an interest in one man, and moved through the city as a show of force, rather than any real policing action. He was able to reach Greenfire Depths without incident and he rounded the rim of the great old quarry, eyeing the smoke that still rose from the charred remains of the slum.
Over half the tenements in the Depths had been destroyed by fire. Surviving Palo huddled in the few open spaces at the bottom of the quarry, some even spilling out on the rim. Rumors swirled about desperate Palo looting the homes and businesses of the people who had fled, and Michel could not find the energy to be surprised—or to blame them.
These were not times, he decided, that he would judge any man for acting in fear.
Around the northern rim of the Depths, he reached the address indicated in the note. Instead of finding the Hotel Henria—which had stood for over a hundred years and was ancient by the standards of the young country—he found only its charred stone foundation.
Michel passed the blackened stone, confused, and wondered if perhaps he’d read the address wrong. There was barely anything left of the place, and the little passing traffic paid it no mind. No one had any time for a burned relic.
He checked the note in his pocket, then glanced at his watch. Five minutes after two. And yes, this was the right address. Perhaps, he decided, the note had been delivered a couple of weeks late? This kind of communication was not always reliable.
He hid in the shadows of the ruin while a squad of Dynize soldiers marched past, their breastplates gleaming in the sun, colorful feathers hanging from their shouldered muskets. Once they’d gone, he decided to have one quick look around before heading back to the safe house.
He’d only climbed onto the lowest of the foundation stones when a figure caught his eye. He let a half smile cross his face and carefully picked his way through the unstable ruin to where the former southern wall of the hotel perched on the very edge of Greenfire Depths.
A man sat on the burned-out foundation, the back of an expensive suit pressed carelessly against bricks blackened by smoke and soot. He was tall, worn but handsome, with hawkish features and striking blue-gray eyes. His black hair was hidden beneath a top hat, and one leg dangled carelessly off the two-hundred-foot drop into the quarry. He held a weathered old sketchbook in one hand and a bit of charcoal in the other, and as Michel approached, he could see a rather good rendition of the Depths.
The man was fair-skinned, but the hand clutching the charcoal was a bright red, the skin hairless and smooth like a child’s.
“I didn’t know you still kept a sketchbook,” Michel said.
Taniel Two-shot, the Red Hand terror of the Fatrastan frontier, squinted down into the fire-ravaged slums of the Depths and made a few quick marks in his sketchbook before flipping it closed and stowing it in a leather valise. He pulled a glove over his right hand, then picked up a silver-headed cane and pointed it at Michel. “You’re late.” He crinkled his nose. “And you smell.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” Michel muttered. Louder, he said, “I wasn’t expecting to meet in a ruin.”
“Ah, right.” Taniel grimaced. “I wasn’t expecting that either, to be honest. You know, Pole and I stayed here for several months when we first came back to Fatrasta. Third floor, corner suite.”
Michel glanced around, half expecting to find Taniel’s silent companion lurking in the ruins of the hotel. “Where is she?”
“Hiding outside the city. Landfall is crawling with bone-eyes. Pole may be able to turn a god inside out with raw power, but she’s all self-taught. We don’t want to risk the Dynize finding her until we’re ready for a serious fight.”
The thought both scared and exhilarated Michel. “Makes sense. So what brings you back? I thought you two left with Lady Flint.”
Taniel stood up, balancing on the foundation stones, hopping from one foot to the other before glancing down at the long drop and stepping into the safety of the ruin of the hotel. He brushed a bit of soot off his sleeve—a wasted effort, because he was covered in it. “Never left.”
Michel made a noise in the back of his throat and pursed his lips. “You’ve been here for three weeks? You’re joking.”
“Afraid not. Lindet abandoned the city. The Dynize, despite all their spies, really have no idea what they’re getting into. It was too good an opportunity for me to do some poking around.”
Michel paced back and forth, kicking a loose brick into the ruins of what had once been the hotel’s wine cellar. The brick clanked twice, then shattered a bottle. Three weeks of flailing around, helping the Blackhats because those were the only allies he knew, worried one of them would find out who he really was and put a knife in his back. All while his real master was wandering around the very same city. Michel talked himself down from shouting and simply said, “You could have told me.”
Taniel eyed him. Two-shot could be warm as a brother, or very very cold. This time he offered a neutral shrug. “I had no idea where you were. I could have used your help sorting through Blackhat files. It wasn’t until yesterday that one of my contacts was able to track you down.”
“Right.” Michel wondered whether to believe him. Master or not, Taniel had his own agenda. It was kept secret for good reason, but it didn’t make it any easier when Michel was left in the dark. “So what happens now?”
“I understand you’re still with the Blackhats?”
“I’ve bunked up with a Silver Rose. We’ve spent the last week or so trying to get Blackhat families out of the city before the Dynize agents find and kill them.”
“Commendable.” Taniel stared at him for several moments, until the silence grew awkward. “Do the Blackhats know you betrayed them?” he finally asked.
“I don’t think so,” Michel responded hesitantly. “Hendres—the Silver Rose I’m working with—knows that Fidelis Jes wanted me dead before Styke cut off his head. But I don’t think she knows why. The fact that I’m here, helping the Blackhats, seems to be enough for her. It seems I’m still a Gold Rose.”