Sandis forced herself not to turn away. He’s not suspicious. Act . . . pretty. She managed a smile, which apparently was the right thing to do, for Rone matched it and leaned in closer. She said, “I suppose it’s better than cotton.”
“Why? Cotton is so . . . soft.” His toe rubbed against her ankle.
Sandis shook her head. “In the factories, little bits of it flutter everywhere. People breathe them in. It collects in their lungs, makes them sick.” Her father had always had a nasty cough from working at the cotton mill.
“Oh. Um, sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
She shrugged. “It’s not your fault.”
“Figure of speech.”
Sandis turned the empty mug over in her hands. “So . . . do you work at a factory?”
He grinned again. “Not exactly. I’m more of a—”
The door to the tavern flung open and smashed into the wall behind it. Without turning around, Sandis knew. Somehow, she knew.
That pressure began building in her skull again. Spinning around, she saw Galt and four other grafter lackeys push their way into the quiet establishment: Marek, the heavy door guard. Ravis, whose coat she wore. Another two she couldn’t name. Her heart sped until her vision swam. She desperately looked around—window, kitchen?—for somewhere to run.
“What’s the meaning of this?” The bald man from behind the bar marched out, hands on his hips.
Sandis’s breathing accelerated. Could she hide under the table? They must have followed her from the bank and seen her come in here— Rone’s fingers touched her wrist, and she jumped. His brows knit together. “You all right?”
She swallowed. Searched for words. Shook her head.
Rone glanced at the men, who were already shoving the barkeeper aside. “They’re after you?”
She nodded.
He grinned. Grinned. Sandis pulled her wrist back.
“Don’t worry.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take care of them. We’ll discuss payment later.”
Did he glance at her lips? He definitely winked.
Sandis was incredibly confused. Then Galt saw her and pulled out a knife, and confusion turned to cold stone.
Rone’s hands disappeared under the table for a moment, and Sandis thought she heard a brief whir. Then he stood and launched himself at all five men.
That dreamlike sensation came back to her for a moment as she stared, still frozen in place, her blood pounding through her veins. Rone soared toward Galt and moved like water away from his knife. Grabbed his wrist and brought it up and over his head, disarming him— One of the unnamed charged at him, throwing a fist. Rone easily ducked it and dragged Galt down with him— But there were three more. Marek pulled a knife. Sandis screamed when it thrust under Rone’s arm and deep into his ribs.
Rone barely flinched.
He barely flinched . . . and turned around to slam his knuckles into Marek’s cheek. The man fell back, ripping the knife out as he did.
No blood.
There was no blood. No wound. Nothing but a hole in Rone’s shirt.
Sandis’s mouth fell open. But . . . how?
The grafters were skilled—they moved quickly, and Sandis had a hard time keeping track of them. But Rone moved quicker. He twisted limbs. Slammed elbows into noses, feet into guts. Another knife stabbed into his collar, but it left no more of a wound than the first one had. Marek went down, followed by Ravis. Rone was fighting the two unknown grafters when that faint whirring attracted Sandis’s attention again.
Daring to take her eyes off the scene, she lay down on the bench and looked under the table.
She gasped.
There, spinning in the air as though held up by invisible string, was a golden ornament about the size of her fist. It was made entirely of gold bent to form a loopy kind of star around a spinning center—the source of the whirring sound.
An amarinth. Kazen had sketches of similar objects. He’d talked about them before at length. They were incredibly rare artifacts of Noscon make that granted their owners immortality. Brief immortality. What were the rules again? A minute of life for every twenty-four hours of the day?
Sandis had thought it a legend—perhaps a test of her gullibility—but there was no denying what she’d seen. The grafters’ knives had come out clean, and this golden thing hung in the air before her. How long had it been spinning? Thirty seconds? Forty?
She dared not touch it, lest she stop its spinning and get Rone killed.
She looked up as Galt hit the floor, cradling a bloody mouth.
Rone had an amarinth. The grafters couldn’t hurt him.
If she took it, they wouldn’t be able to hurt her . . .
Sandis’s gaze flicked between the amarinth, Rone, and the grafters. Time was nearly up. The grafters were almost incapacitated. She had to choose.
For the second time that morning, her mind made itself up like a firing pin depressed.
The second the last grafter fell, Sandis grabbed the amarinth and bolted for the door, losing herself in the crowd before Rone could catch his breath.
Chapter 5
Introduce yourself to the pretty girl, he’d thought. Impress her with your protective abilities, he’d thought.
Now he was chasing her through Dresberg at the busiest hour of the day, and she had his amarinth.
Idiot. He ran, bulldozing through two children holding hands. They’d get over any scraped knees, but he had to get that amarinth back, or life as he knew it was over.
That relic was his, damn it!
“Thief!” he tried, turning heads even as he pushed through them.
Men, women, and children alike packed the streets and sidewalks. Lunch hour at the factory was the absolute worst time to chase someone. Those who heard him turned about, looking for the accused, but they didn’t know whom to look at, let alone apprehend. Rone was moving as fast as he could, yet barely covering any ground.
This was exactly why he preferred rooftops.
He struggled to keep track of the woman who’d shared his cider and then stolen his most treasured possession. He stepped on a lot of feet and was battered by a lot of curses, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She pulled up the hood of her coat, which helped her blend in. She wasn’t short, but there were plenty of tall workers in the crowd, and every time she ducked around one, Rone panicked a little more.
“Thief!” he yelled again. He didn’t have time to contemplate the irony of the accusation.
Rone growled and crossed his arms in front of his chest as a shield, picking up speed and plowing through the crowd. He burst out onto a new street, where there was an extra finger’s breadth or two between people. He pushed through. Got cussed at. A woman hit him with her bag as he passed. He didn’t care. He had to reach Sandis. He had to reach her.
How the hell was she moving so much faster than he was?
Someone shouted a protest far to Rone’s right—he dared to glance over, only to see two of the men from the tavern shoving their way through the crowd just as he had. The stocky man he’d punched in the mouth, the ringleader, and another one of the thugs.
Good. Whatever trouble she’s in, I hope they catch her! He shook his head and gritted his teeth, barking at two chatting men to move. No, I don’t. If they get her, they’ll get the amarinth.
He was the stupidest person he knew. Stupid, stupid. Thinking with his pants instead of his head. Idiot, idiot, idiot— He blew through the crowd, stumbling onto a bit of street not completely overflowing with people. He was near the end of the exodus. He sprinted as fast as he could. A little farther, and— No. Rone stopped. Spun around. Rushed back to the crowd. Weaved through the street. Slipped into one alleyway, then another. No, no, no, no, no!
She was gone.