No Trade for Nice Guys
“Look,” Indrajit Twang said, “this isn’t hard. You can tell us where you got the necklace. We know it was a black-market dealer of some kind, someone willing to sell stolen goods, and that’s who we’re looking for. We don’t care about you. Our patron doesn’t care about you.”
“Patron?” Fibulous Mosk, the pottery merchant, was pale green, nearly spherical, and sweating. The fingers of all four of his hands, sixteen digits in total, drummed on his countertop.
“Yes, our patron.” Indrajit took a large red vase from the shelves and hefted it. Imitation astrological Bonean glyphs were painted around the vase’s mouth in gold to add class, but the color of the glazing clearly said that the work was local. He swung the vase experimentally, as if considering how he might smash it on the floor. Indrajit’s partner, Fix, joined in the implied threat, hoisting a pair of red clay jugs by their handles. “Did you think we were here on our own? What, just looking for a little stolen jewelry?”
Mosk shrugged. “I don’t know you guys.”
“You haven’t heard of us? The Protagonists? We’re a famous jobber company. We’re the terror of risk-merchants and joint-stock promoters throughout the Paper Sook.”
The merchant shrugged again, helpless.
“Anyway,” Indrajit continued, “we are, and our patron is looking for the thief who stole this necklace. Our patron spotted the jewelry at a ball of some kind, around your wife’s lovely green neck.” In actuality, the necklace had been spotted by Grit Wopal, the Yifft who was the head of the Lord Chamberlain’s Ears, and to whom Indrajit and Fix reported. And also, in actuality, Mosk’s wife didn’t have a neck. Indrajit had no idea how she wore the necklace, which he and Fix had retrieved from her wardrobe. “To track our way back to the thief, we need to find the vendor. So just tell us where you bought it, and we’ll have no more trouble.”
Fix flashed the jewelry to remind the merchant and sharpen his wits.
Mosk hissed, the upturned cups that sprouted on his head like grass on a picnic field trembling. “What did you do with my wife?”
“Nothing,” Indrajit said.
“But you’re going to hurt her, if I don’t turn over my . . . jeweler? You stole her necklace to show me you could hurt my family if you want to?”
Fix met Indrajit’s gaze and squinted. He could do that, even standing to Indrajit’s side, because Indrajit’s eyes were set so far back on the sides of his skull, Fix sometimes teased him that he was descended from a fish.
Fix shook his head, a subtle warning to his friend.
“We’re not going to hurt your wife,” Indrajit said.
The green shopkeeper’s eyes narrowed. “Nice guys, is it? Yours is no trade for nice guys.”
Fix smashed a jug against the countertop, sending baked clay shards flying in all directions.
“Okay, okay!” The merchant waved his hands in surrender, to avert any more destruction. “I’ll tell you!”
Fix raised the second jug over his head, and Indrajit set the necklace on the countertop. “We’re listening,” Indrajit said.
Mosk cocked his head at Fix. “Does he ever talk, then?”
“He talks more when you get to know him,” Indrajit said. “It isn’t an improvement.”
“Do I get the necklace back?” Mosk licked his lips. In contrast to the pale green of his skin, his tongue was a bright crimson.
“If the information pans out—” Indrajit started to say.
“No,” Fix said. Indrajit’s partner was shorter than he was, but broad-shouldered and stocky. The high-pitched, soft, voice that came out him still surprised Indrajit, though they’d been partners now for weeks. Feminine though the voice could sound, it was still forceful. “We keep the necklace.”
“No?” Mosk was disappointed, and the thin blue ridges over his eyes rose up and wrinkled together. Then they coalesced into a stony glare of resolve. “In that case, I can’t see that I have any reason to help you.”
“Sure you do,” Indrajit said, thinking fast. He had planned to give the man back the necklace, provided that his information proved to be accurate. “You’ll help us because we’re the good guys.”
Mosk shook his head. “If I help you, then my source gets angry with me.”
“Maybe.” Indrajit shrugged. “But you know that we’ll play nice with your jeweler, just like we’re being nice with you.”
“That doesn’t guarantee my source will forgive me.”
“True,” Indrajit agreed. “But if we have to go back to our patron and report failure, he’ll be angry.”
“Our patron is Orem Thrush,” Fix said. “The Lord Chamberlain.”
“Thrush?” Fibulous Mosk grew visibly paler.
“Orem Thrush,” Fix said again. “The beast with a hundred faces, who walks unseen among the people of Kish because he can take any face he wants.”
That wasn’t completely accurate, but there was truth in it; Thrush’s face could metamorphose into masks resembling the faces of those around him. Indrajit wasn’t really sure whether Thrush consciously controlled the phenomenon, but it allowed the Lord Chamberlain to move about Kish anonymously. It also gave rise to extravagant rumors.
“He’ll probably kill us,” Indrajit said. “And then he’ll send some other jobbers to catch the thief. And those guys will be better armed, more numerous, and probably really mean. You know, typical short-tunic bruisers. And just like we found you and your wife, they’ll find you and your wife.”
“They’ll beat the information out of you,” Fix said. “Or out of her.”
“And your jeweler will meet them, and be really unhappy.”
Fix nodded solemnly. “We’re gentle. We’re your best option.”
“We really are.” Indrajit recovered the necklace and slid it into the pocket of his kilt. “So save everyone the trouble, won’t you? Just tell us who sold you the necklace.”
“Was it in the Spill?” Fix suggested. “In the Alley of Ten Thousand Eyes?” The street he named was a narrow avenue that was home to a dozen jewelers. It was located near the Paper Sook, where Indrajit and Fix spent much of their time, because the presence of so much money meant the area crawled with armed guards, and crime was rare.
Or anyway, some crimes, like robbery and burglary, were rare.
Fibulous Mosk shuddered. “It’s in the Dregs.”
Indrajit frowned. “I don’t know a jeweler in the Dregs. Do you?”
“There are no jewelers in the Dregs,” Fix said. “Pickpockets, lepers, burglars, madmen, whores, beggars, cutthroats, sell-swords—”
“Cheap sell-swords,” Indrajit said.
Fix nodded. “—smugglers, kidnappers, arsonists, poisoners, rabble-rousers, madmen, and drug addicts, yes. Also the Vin Dalu. But no jewelers.”
“My source isn’t a jeweler,” Mosk said. “He’s a fence. I . . . needed to impress my wife. Buying goods that were . . . previously owned . . . ”
“Stolen,” Fix said.
“ . . . was the only way I could afford what she wanted.”
“That makes more sense,” Indrajit said. “A fence would be right at home in the Dregs.”
“What fence?” Fix asked.
“His name is Jaxter Boom.”
“Jaxter Boom,” Fix said. “The Puppeteer.”
“Whoa.” Indrajit shook his head. “A jeweler, I believe. A fence, that makes sense. But puppets?”
“They call Boom the Puppeteer because he controls so many other fences,” Mosk said. “As well as smugglers and thieves. The Puppeteer is a gangster, a crime lord, one of the Gray Lords of Kish.”
“My kind of people,” Indrajit lied.
“I don’t think Boom is one of the Gray Lords,” Fix said. “Not that I have thorough knowledge of the city’s thieves’ guilds. But I don’t think he’s that important.”
“Well, then,” Indrajit said, “tell us how to find this Puppeteer, and we’re on our way.”
The green drained right out of Mosk, leaving him looking nearly white.
“Come on.” Indrajit tapped his thumb against the pommel of his leaf-bladed broadsword, Vacho. “Give us the streets, and our business here is done. You never have to see us again—or at least, not until you commit risk-merchantry fraud, or swindle your investors.”
Fix was looking intently at the pottery merchant.
Fibulous Mosk trembled.
“One last time,” Indrajit began, swelling his voice up to trumpet level.
“No need,” Fix said. “I know where Mosk lives.”
“Really?” Indrajit felt caught off-balance. “They can’t have taught you that at the ashrama, as one of your ten thousand useless pieces of lore.” Fix had been plucked from the street as a child and raised to become a priest of Salish-Bozar the White, god of useless knowledge. He’d walked away from the priesthood for a woman, who had then married someone else.
Mosk shook so violently, he knocked his ledger from his countertop.
“You forget that I’m from here,” Fix said. “I was a street urchin for years before I was ever a devotee of Salish-Bozar. Everyone knows the lair of the Puppeteer. That was a useful piece of information, especially for any kid who ever aspired to be a thief.”
“Lair, that’s good. We should call our offices a ‘lair.’” Indrajit looked back at the shopkeeper, who was melting into the corner, the gnarled ridges on his face softened and gone flat. “We’re done here, then?”
Fix nodded. “We’re done. And you, Mosk,” he added, his voice tightening into a high-pitched snarl, “don’t you dare warn the Puppeteer that we’re coming.”
Indrajit and Fix exited onto the street. Outside, the summer sun baked the cobblestones of the Lee even through the thick, wet swaddling of summer haze. Indrajit followed Fix as the shorter man turned right, downhill, and then ducked into a large cloth merchant’s tent just down the street and across from the potter’s shop.
“I’m glad you caught on,” Fix whispered, as the two men turned to look back at Mosk’s shop. “I was worried you were going to push him too far and make him snap.”
“I’m worried you played that last line a little too hard.” Indrajit sniffed. “You can tell a child not to do exactly the thing that you want it to do, but a grown man?”
“I had to plant the thought in his head,” Fix said. “It will work, and it will work quickly. He’ll send his shop boy, any minute.”
A third person intruded into their conversation; the shop’s clerk was tall and thin, with luminous circles under her eyes and dry, scaly skin. An orange tail whisked the cobblestones behind her. She smiled. “Can I show you gentlemen any fabric?”
Fix grunted.
“Yes.” Indrajit sighed. “Bring me a bolt of your cheapest, coarsest cloth. Burlap, if you have it. I mean really, the worst you have.”
The clerk sniffed. “We don’t carry cheap cloth here. Perhaps you’d prefer to shop in the Caravanserai.”
“Your least elegant, then,” Indrajit said. “Whatever no one else is buying.” He pressed two asimi into the clerk’s hand; she sniffed, but didn’t return the money, and disappeared into the deeper chambers of the tent.
“You’re a prodigal,” Fix said, “a spendthrift.”
“I know what a prodigal is.”
“You didn’t have to give her money.”
“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t very much.” Indrajit kept his eyes pinned on the door. “Besides, we might be gone before she gets back, and I don’t want to ruin her day.”
“You didn’t want to ruin Mosk’s day, either, so you were going to let him keep the Lord Chamberlain’s stolen necklace.”
“Which the Lord Chamberlain doesn’t care that much about, because he’s willing to let us keep it.”
“Let me rephrase myself. You were willing to give away the biggest part of the payment that Orem Thrush promised us, three-quarters of our reward, if I’m any judge of jewelry at all, for finding this thief.”
“Which we’re only entitled to if we actually bring back the thief. Alive. Thrush really emphasized the alive part.” Indrajit shuddered, thinking of the beating he’d received the first time he’d entered the presence of Orem Thrush. “To be tortured, presumably.”
“Think about what you’re saying. You were willing to spend money we haven’t actually earned yet, and might not earn at all.”
Indrajit sighed. “Now you’re going to tell me we have a business to run and expenses to cover.”
“I’m glad to see that I don’t have to.” Fix snorted. “Mosk isn’t entirely wrong when he says this is no trade for nice guys.”
“He’s right about that,” Indrajit said. “This is a trade for heroes.”
The clerk returned with a bolt of cloth. It was undyed linen, and Indrajit wasted only moments fingering it. “Fifteen cubits,” he said to the clerk. “One ten-cubit length, and one five-cubit.”
The clerk cut the lengths of fabric, named a price, and Indrajit handed over the coins.
“You could have bargained,” Fix said. “Now you’ve got two lengths of cheap fabric that was surprisingly costly.”
“False.” Indrajit tossed the ten-cubit length to his partner. “Now you have a toga, and I have a cloak. Assuming they taught you to tie a toga at the ashrama.”
At that moment, Fibulous Mosk himself scurried out of the front door of his shop, and turned uphill, toward the Crown, the finest quarter of Kish and the one that lay within its walls about the top of the hill upon which Kish sprawled. Through the Crown was the shortest, and the safest, route to the Dregs. The potter had a broad hat on his head, with a scarf swathed around his neck and chin to screen him from the sun, and also to hide his face. Indrajit recognized the merchant from his green forehead and the pale green skin of his four forearms.
Fix quickly folded himself into a toga; he was Kishi, the most common race of man in Kish, so the toga ought to make him essentially invisible, especially in the wealthier quarters of the city. It also nicely hid his hatchet, falchion, and long knives, and his spear might be mistaken for a walking staff, especially at a distance. Indrajit, on the other hand, was tall, with wide-set eyes, a bony ridge for a nose, and a faint greenish tint to his mahogany skin, so he had a hard time disappearing into a crowd, even in Kish, where half the thousand races of man passed through the streets every day; instead, he wrapped the linen about his head and shoulders as a cloak and hood.
Then they slipped into the street and followed the potter.
The Lee, lying on the landward side of Kish, was sheltered from the brunt of the weather that came in from the sea. On the south-facing slopes of Kish’s mound, it got the largest share of heat and light in all seasons. The summer sun hammered on Indrajit and Fix both, but Fix was a native, and underneath his toga he wore only his kilt, and the hike up into the Crown brought only the faintest trace of a crown of sweat to his brow. Indrajit, who was from cooler and wetter climes, and who now isolated his face from what breeze there was behind a linen hood, was soon panting.
They passed through the usual commercial traffic of the Lee: Droggers carrying burdens to or from warehouses, tradesmen shouting the virtues of their wares, shoppers in togas followed by their servants. Indrajit accidentally stumbled into a scab-eyed Gund, provoking a bellow and a hiss from the pale giant, but Mosk didn’t turn around.
Jobbers in green and gold, wearing the hammer and sword device of the Lord Farrier, watched the gates. Indrajit ignored them and was ignored in turn, shuffling through the gates a stone’s throw behind the four-armed potter.
Chanting came from Indrajit’s right as they passed within a few streets of the Sun Seat. Celebrants there would be preparing to receive the procession that marked the longest day of the year and one of the two turning points of the city’s calendar. The summer procession, like its winter counterpart, was a holdover from the old Imperial days, when Kish had indulged in much more ceremony.
Turning right shortly beyond the Sun Seat, Indrajit and Fix followed the pottery merchant through another gate and into the Dregs.
Several quarters could reasonably vie for the title of “worst quarter of Kish.” The Dregs did not smell the worst—that distinction belonged to either the East or West Flats, where the city’s fishers lived and hauled in their catches. The city’s worst abuses of power were likely planned in the Crown, and its financial crimes were committed in the Spill. But the Dregs was home to the contagious, the footpads, the poxy, and the murderous. It was the weeping sore of Kish.
“You didn’t really live in here as a street urchin,” Indrajit murmured to his partner.
“I was a homeless beggar child,” Fix said. “I slept wherever people wouldn’t kick me out. Believe it or not, yes, some of the more welcoming corners I slept in were here.”
“Ugh.” Indrajit raised his knee to step carefully over a pile of droppings whose species of origin he couldn’t even guess at.
Mosk turned and turned again. At each change of direction, Indrajit and Fix rushed to catch up and then carefully watched at the merchant turned down a narrow alley, and then into a tiny plaza, choked by buildings that rose around it and leaned inward as they climbed, leaving a patch of bright sky at the top only a quarter the size of the stained cobblestones below.
Within the plaza, Mosk stood at a broad, unmarked door, talking to a tall figure wearing a black cloak. A drooping mass of flesh like an elephant’s trunk descended from the open hood and twitched as Mosk whispered urgently.
Indrajit’s long legs took him across the plaza in three quick steps. “Friend Mosk!” he called, letting his hood fall back to reveal his face. Just in case, he kept his hand on Vacho’s hilt, concealed under his cloak. “Friend Mosk, thank you!”
Fibulous Mosk wheeled. His scarf fell away from his face, and terror twisted his green features. “But! But!”
Indrajit addressed the cloaked guard. “Our friend Fibulous has such a quick pace, he nearly left us behind. But you’d have looked a little silly, coming into Jaxter Boom’s . . . office . . . to introduce us to Boom . . . without us!”
Fix caught up, throwing an arm around the pottery merchant. Indrajit heard the man’s knees knock.
The doorman shook with slow laughter. Long, shaggy hair hung down around the proboscis, trembling like leaves in the wind. “The Protagonists. You would be Indrajit Twang, and the shorter one is Fiximon Nasoprominentus Fascicular. The scholar.”
“Dammit, Twang,” Fix snarled. “Stop telling people that’s my name.”
“It’s not my fault your name is so short,” Indrajit protested. “It’s an undignified name for a literary man.”
The guard laughed again. “You’ve arrived earlier than we expected. My master will be pleased. But you don’t need an introduction.”
Indrajit felt uneasy. “In that case,” he said slowly, “we should probably let our mutual friend go. He has pots to sell.”
Fibulous Mosk made a squeaking noise as he escaped, that might have been intended to communicate relief or gratitude.
The doorman opened the door. Within the hood, two twinkles briefly flashed in Indrajit’s direction, hinting at unseen eyes. Indrajit discreetly checked that the necklace was safely stowed in his kilt pocket, smiled at the guard, and stepped through the door. Fix followed.
The steps immediately behind the door descended steeply, each step so narrow it could barely accommodate one of Indrajit’s sandaled heels. The ceiling overhead was low, forcing him to stoop.
“Be glad you’re not a Grokonk,” Fix said.
“The existence of low ceilings is the least of many reasons why I am relieved not to be a Grokonk. The choice between being voiceless and sexless is a much more serious drawback.”
“I don’t know,” Fix said. “I think you would do fine as a voiceless man.”
The stairs ended in a high-ceilinged, long chamber, with arches opening onto dark passages along both sides. At the far end of the room, two coal-filled braziers gave light, illuminating a glass wall, behind which sloshed dark water. The glass didn’t rise all the way to the ceiling, and its depths were dark, suggesting that Indrajit was only seeing the very end of a large tank. Left and right, two low pedestals stood pressed against the glass. Two young Kishi, a woman and a man, stood on the pedestals. They wore tattered shifts and leaned back against the glass as if they needed the support; their bodies were emaciated, their eyes vacant.
Indrajit and Fix strode forward. Behind him and to his right, Indrajit heard the steps of the guard with the long nose.
“Surely, neither of these wretches can be the famed Jaxter Boom,” Indrajit said.
“Boom is coming,” Proboscis told them.
Indrajit heard many footfalls. Keeping his facial expression light and cheerful, he turned his head slightly. In his excellent peripheral vision, he saw all the arches exiting the room, as well as the exit to the staircase, filling with armed men. They wore no uniform and their weapons were irregular, suggesting they weren’t a jobber company or any other kind of irregular force—just thugs hired by Jaxter Boom, armed with long knives, short spears, clubs, and axes.
“Good,” he said.
With a muted whoosh sound, something pressed itself against the glass. For a moment, Indrajit saw only indistinguishable flesh, pink and so pale it was almost white, but then a lashless blue eye opened, pressing itself against the glass. With a soft splash, two masses of pink flesh rose above the glass wall, unfurling themselves until Indrajit could see they were tentacles. The tentacles reached forward, each touching the back of the skull of one of the Kishi standing on the pedestals—
And then pushing forward, entering the heads of the Kishi.
The two Kishi straightened their backs, standing up. Energy seemed to fill their frames; their backs straightened and their vacant eyes lit up, but the light was unnatural and sickly.
“I am Jaxter Boom,” the Kishi said. Their voices spoke at the same pitch and in perfect unison, but somehow managed to clash with each other.
Indrajit took a deep breath.
“I assume you are the . . . person in the tank, and not the people standing on pedestals in front of us,” he said.
“Correct,” the Kishi answered in unison.
“That must be uncomfortable for them,” Indrajit said.
“They have neither comfort nor discomfort,” the Kishi said together. “They have ceased to be men, and are now simply the Voices of Jaxter Boom.”
“You have two for the symmetry?” Indrajit asked. “Or because it lets you shout louder?”
“You have two because they wear out quickly,” Fix said softly. “Look at them, they’re wasting away. And with two at all times, you won’t be left without a Voice. You must keep . . . spares.”
“Correct, Fix of the Protagonists,” the Voices said.
Indrajit wanted to know more, out of natural curiosity and because, as Recital Thane, he had yet to compose his additions to the Blaatshi Epic, and this strange race of men was not one that yet appeared in the Epic. Indrajit wanted to know more so that he could construct pointed kennings and compose stock epithets.
In addition, Indrajit was curious how Boom knew their names and expected their arrival.
But he also didn’t want to aggravate this crime lord in his own lair.
“A thief sold you this.” He held up the necklace so that the lashless eye could gaze directly at it. “We’re hunting the thief.”
“I have the thief,” the Voices said. “She tried to cheat me. If you’re seeking justice, be assured that the thief shall receive it.”
The thief was a woman. “We’ve been tasked with bringing the thief back alive,” Indrajit said, smiling. “Perhaps you could surrender her to us, and rest easy in the knowledge that the Lord Chamberlain will have her punished thoroughly enough for the wrongs she has committed against both of you.”
There followed a long moment of silence.
“No,” the Voices said. “I do not think I shall surrender my prerogative of justice so easily.”
What could the thief have done to so irritate this crime lord, that it wanted her punished, and hadn’t killed her already?
“We’re prepared to pay,” Indrajit said.
Fix groaned in disgust.
“How much?” the Voices asked.
“Nothing,” Indrajit said, “until we see the thief and can ascertain that she’s really the one who robbed the Lord Chamberlain. And then, we’re willing to negotiate. Where is she? In some cell? Stretched on the rack? You’re not planning on using her as one of your Voices, are you?”
“I’ll permit you to see her,” the Voices said, “for the price of the necklace.”
“We may be willing to pay for the necklace,” Indrajit said, “if you give her to us first.”
“The necklace for a look.” The Voices made a horrible rasping noise that might have been laughter.
“What kind of spendthrifts do you take us for?” Indrajit scowled.
“Agreed,” Fix said. “The necklace for a look.”
Indrajit stared at his partner.
Fix whispered, “I think more is going on here than appears.”
“So it’s bad if I spend money, but prudent if you do it?” Indrajit asked.
“In this case, yes.”
“Throw the necklace into the tank,” the Voices commanded.
“If I’m wrong,” Fix continued, “I’ll take responsibility for the necklace.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Indrajit told his partner. “If you’re wrong, we tell Grit Wopal we never found the necklace.”
He threw the jewelry into the tank. It sank past the staring eye, settling on the bottom, still visible as a dull, brassy glow.
“Bring in the thief,” the Voices commanded.
A rustle of grumbled complaints and padding feet to Indrajit’s left ended as a young woman stumbled out into the room. Her hands were tied with a thong, and she wore a simple tunic and skirt, both of silk, that had once been elegant but were now ragged and filthy. She had an ordinary Kishi complexion and an unremarkable, rather blocky face beneath long black hair. As she glared at Indrajit, something flashed through her eyes.
Hope? Recognition?
Then the woman straightened her back and snarled. There was something familiar about her.
“How about it, then?” Indrajit asked. “Did you steal from the Lord Chamberlain?”
“The hells with you!” the girl snapped.
“Well, that was certainly worth three-quarters of our pay,” he murmured to Fix.
“Look again,” Fix murmured back.
The young woman’s face was subtly shifting. Her skin grew darker, and her nose began to bulge up in a bony ridge as her eyes seemed to swim toward her ears.
“Frozen hells,” Indrajit said.
“Do you understand what you are seeing here?” the Voices asked.
Indrajit thought furiously. They were vastly outnumbered. Jaxter Boom was not going to surrender his prisoner; he was going to use her to get leverage against the Lord Chamberlain, and possibly for nefarious purposes.
Certainly for nefarious purposes—what other kind of purpose could such a creature have?
“You’ll recall that you once had questions about my people’s ancestry,” Indrajit said softly.
“I still maintain that you are descended from your goddess,” Fix answered.
“Good. I see only one way out by which we are not outnumbered, oh, about twenty to one.”
“I’m ready,” Fix said.
“Do you understand?” the Voices demanded.
Indrajit played dumb, just a little longer. He stepped closer to the young woman who had to be kin to Orem Thrush—a daughter? A niece?—and pretended to examine her as he would a Ylakka he was considering purchasing.
He needed to get into position.
And besides, maybe they could still get out without violence.
“She looks poor, more than anything else,” Indrajit said. “She’s wearing someone else’s stolen clothing, obviously, but she can’t be a very good thief, because she’s worn that to rags and hasn’t been able to buy or steal a replacement.”
“I’ll wear your head for a helmet,” the girl said to him, “and make a kilt of your hide.”
She certainly sounded like Orem Thrush.
While all eyes were on Indrajit, Fix drifted back, positioning himself close to one of the Voices.
“You have the necklace,” Indrajit said to Jaxter Boom. “On top of that, I’ll give you ten Imperials to let us take her back to the Lord Chamberlain for punishment.” He met the girl’s gaze as he spoke, and saw again the flicker of emotion.
“You idiot,” the Voices boomed. “How well do you know your master?”
Indrajit shrugged, took a deep breath, and sighed. “I know him well enough to go!”
He shouted this last word, and as he did so, he grabbed the young woman, wrapped his hands around her hips, and hurled her up and over the glass.
At the same moment, Fix leaped onto the pedestal and stabbed a long knife into one of the tentacles, just beside the Voice’s skull.
Men roared and drew weapons. Indrajit kicked over the nearest brazier, sending glowing coals in an arc toward the center of the room, and then grabbed for the second tentacle.
Jaxter Boom yanked both his tentacles back. This had the effect of pulling Fix into the tank, and as the short man hit the water, he was raising his spear over his head with his right hand, preparing to stab. The disappearance of the tentacles also meant that Indrajit missed his grab, seizing instead the top of the glass and scrabbling to drag himself up and over—
But hands seized his ankles.
Indrajit dragged his upper body closer to the tank, touching the glass with his chin. Dark ichor clouded the water of the tank as Fix stabbed into Jaxter Boom’s eye. The two Voices staggered forward into the crowd of criminals, knocking some men down and tripping others. Blows landed on Indrajit’s back and legs. He bellowed and shook himself, trying to writhe free. Looking back, he saw the doorman with the long nose, holding tightly to Indrajit’s right leg. Indrajit lost both sandals, but was also losing his grip on the glass—
The thief grabbed Indrajit by the head. Placing her feet against the glass, she kicked herself back and down, and with the weight of her body, she hauled Indrajit away from the men grabbing him.
Indrajit kicked, landing a blow on Long Nose’s face.
Then he splashed into the water just ahead of two sword points. Through the glass, he saw men with spears plowing through the crowd.
“Are we sure there’s a way out?” the young woman asked.
“No,” Indrajit said. “Take a deep breath!”
She did, and he grabbed the cord that tied her hands together. It made a convenient handle by which to pull her, and Indrajit dove.
Fix’s kicking feet ahead of him indicated the path, and Indrajit followed. Thin, wispy clouds of black ichor dissipated as Indrajit swam directly into them, shattering them with his one-armed stroke. He fought his way out of his own burlap cloak, and then through the clinging film of Fix’s burlap toga.
Fix plunged into darkness and disappeared.
Were they going to die? Had Indrajit made a terrible, final mistake?
For long moments, he struggled against black despair as he stroked. The rescued prisoner had taken a breath as directed, and she was cooperating, kicking her feet behind her, but she was doing so awkwardly. She wasn’t a great swimmer, and if she started to run out of air she might panic.
Behind him, Indrajit heard faint splashes. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the heads and shafts of long spears being stabbed into the water. Then he heard a larger splash and saw the first of Jaxter Boom’s men plunge into the water.
He focused on the path ahead, and saw a glimmer of light. Fix wiggled, a dark silhouette on the right side of Indrajit’s frame of vision. Then the light shone down directly on Fix’s body, and Indrajit saw his partner stop, look upward, and then swim up toward the light.
Toward air, hopefully. Indrajit’s lungs ached.
Four long tentacles reached out from the darkness and grabbed Fix.
Indrajit yelled out of pure instinct, and shouted the last air from his lungs out into the water. Instantly, he felt dizzy, and sank. He was going to die, suffocated, or crushed by the same arms that were now drawing Fix out of the light and back into darkness.
His foot touched rock and he felt the young woman thrashing. Bracing himself, he pushed her forward, toward the light, and then with his right hand he drew Vacho from its sheath.
Inanely, some part of him wanted to shout a battle cry, like the heroes of the Epic. Vacho was, after all, named after the lightning-sword of Inder, an ancient name of the city’s great storm god, Hort. Fortunately, Indrajit had mastered his instinct to yell again, and instead lunged upward through the shaft of light into the darkness, left hand extended and groping, right hand tucked under his shoulder, ready to stab.
To his left, the young woman’s feet kicked as she swam up to the light.
Indrajit’s fingers found something elastic and smooth, something that tensed as he touched it. His head swam; much more time without air and he would pass out. He closed his hand, found his fingers wrapped around something ropelike, and then pulled himself toward it. In the gloom, he saw Fix, shuddering, a tentacle wrapped around his neck. He saw pale skin, and then an eye.
Indrajit stabbed.
Black ichor jetted from the eye and struck Indrajit in the face.
Darkness. Lights flashed in his vision.
Something hit Indrajit, but he wasn’t sure.
What it was.
Warm. He felt.
Warm.
Air forced its way into Indrajit’s lungs and he coughed.
Hands gripped his face. Indrajit spat out water and the hands shifted, turning him over onto his side. He gagged, coughed again, and then suddenly he was sucking in warm air. His limbs felt numb and leaden.
“See?” he heard Fix’s voice say. “He’s at least half fish.”
His vision returned, and Indrajit struggled through more coughing to sit up. He was sprawled on a stretch of rocks, and the air reeked of salt and decay.
Fix and the young woman they had rescued stood over him.
“I guess Boom must live in the sea,” Fix said, looking out at the water.
Indrajit decided he didn’t want to know which of the two had breathed air into him. He wobbled, but with Fix’s help he was able to stand up, and then Fix handed him Vacho, hilt first.
“Thanks.” Indrajit sheathed his weapon. Sensation was gradually returning to his arms and legs.
“I only ever saw it in the water,” the woman said.
“Ouch.” Indrajit shook a sharp, stabbing rock out of his foot.
“You guys work for my father,” the young woman said.
“You’re not a thief.” Indrajit took deep breaths, trying to shake a lingering feeling of dizziness.
She shook her head. “My name is Yasta, and that was my necklace. I was kidnapped.”
“Boom sold the necklace as a signal,” Fix said. “He wanted us to find him, and learn he held Yasta, so that he could have leverage over Yasta’s father.”
“I guess your father didn’t want to tell anyone his daughter had disappeared,” Indrajit said to the girl. “And he sent us because he knew we wouldn’t want to kill anyone, even someone we thought was a thief.”
Fix shook his head. “He sent us because we’re the best.” He raised a hand, and in it he held Yasta Thrush’s necklace. He held it out toward the girl.
“We’d better get moving,” Indrajit said. “By the smells, we’re near the East Flats, which means we have a bit of a run to get you home. And some of those fellows might be able to swim.”
“Keep the necklace,” Yasta Thrush said. “It’s a fair trade.”