INTERLUDE 7B: CLOSE TO PLAN
“None listen to me! No one listens as I howl into the Void! Worship no gods! Not even me. By this shall you know my disciples. The emptiness within that longs for the Bringer’s kiss. We shall take it all back to the Mist from whence it came. Nothing shall more please the Queen than to see it all dissolve away.”
– from the Utenyan Creed
15th Mortifost, 998 NE
“What in Yane’s name is the tub o’ lard up to?”
“Uh… You mean Peltos, boss?”
Wyre sighed, and stared across his desk at his subordinate. “Course I mean Peltos. You not been listenin’, Jerle?”
“No, no, I ‘ave, boss, I swears, swears by Y-Yane.” Sweat broke out on Jerle’s brow almost instantly. “I was just checkin’, ya know, so as I didn’t stab-up the wrong guy.”
“We ain’t stabbin’ up Peltos or anyone, not yet,” Wyre corrected him. “First we need to find out what he’s up to. Looks like he’s outta product and he ain’t come beggin’ for more – you know wha’ that means.”
Lark, another of his ‘captains’, tried his hand. “Uh – he gots anudder supplier, boss?”
“Right!” Wyre pointed a congratulatory finger in Lark’s direction. “One of these Lowtown gangs is what I bet. Zandrina’s, I bet…”
His voice drifted off. He’d always wanted to meet Zandrina in person. The woman responsible for moving inkatra out of Rivertown. The woman who thought she could play in the big leagues.
Invading his territory? Stealing his generals away? He’d show her who was boss.
“So we supposed to keep an eye on ‘im?” Jerle asked.
“An’ on all his Gentlemen,” Wyre hissed. “They might swear they’re still Bertie Boys, but who knows?” He deliberately hardened his voice; it would inspire his soldiers. “It’s my job as to keep this family together.”
He waved a hand in dismissal, turning his head to the huge map of Sticktown hanging on the wall, and his sub-leaders filed out of the room.
He thumbed away the pink chalk covering Daggerden and grudgingly coloured the area green. Another neighbourhood taken by the great drug-queen. This time it was the Wallside Gang who’d paid the price, but next time…? He stared at the border with North Lowtown, the little images of houses and other buildings, each no bigger than an ant – and even then they were probably far too big for the scale of the map. Either way, it helped him focus. He could imagine Zandrina there in one of those green-chalked buildings. Imagine squashing her operations, just like he squashed ants… people… Peltos.
Yes, Peltos would have to die. It was sad – not that he’d ever admit to feeling that way – but it would have to be done, once the exact consequences of his betrayal were understood. This was family. The Bertie Boys were so much more than an organisation.
With another sigh, he got up and left his desk, heading out of the room and down three flights of stairs until he reached the basement level, accepting the respectful head-nods of his boys he passed along the way.
It wasn’t them he needed to speak to; it was his real boy.
He didn’t knock. That would be a sign of weakness. He just threw open the door.
His son’s room stank of stale sweat and booze, the stench of weeks of immobility, night after night spent in fearful degeneracy. Empty ale casks and discarded tankards littered the room; clothes had been flung unwashed over every available surface, soiled not with mud but with perspiration and spilt beer. Orven was on top of the bed, in a drunken stupor – nothing new there – but the look on his face was unusually aware, contorted in alcohol-fuelled anguish.
“Da’!” he moaned, untwisting the quilts wrapped around him and sitting upright. “Da’, wha’s goin’ on?”
Wyre stared at his son, hard-eyed. This pathetic excuse for a Bertie Boy had sprung from his own loins, heir to a criminal empire that, while not excessive, would upon Wyre’s death make Orven one of the richest men in Sticktown.
But the stinking crown prince wasn’t worthy. He hadn’t earned anything. He’d never applied his mind to his problems, never stopped indulging in pleasures. He was twenty years old, and he’d never taken an interest in a single thing that didn’t wear a skirt or have foam dripping down the side.
It’s my own damn fault, Wyre cursed silently, regarding Orven. I should’ve been harsher. Should’ve made him a man instead of this puling infant.
“What’s goin’ on?” He repeated his son’s question back at him. “What are you doing, Orven? Are you still hiding?”
“Still hidin’!” the boy howled. “Da’, a mage stuck his hand inside me, what do you want me to do? I –“
“I want you to step up!” Wyre snapped. “I want you to be a man, be my son! Look at you! Listen to you! Smell you! You’re a disgustin’, degenerate excuse for a Bertie Boy!”
Orven shrank back onto his pillows.
“If you doan get the drop out of this dropping bed right now,” Wyre snarled, “I’ll do to you what I did to Toras.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone, just like that. For all the world to see.”
Orven sprang from the bedsheets, half-dressed, food smeared across his chest-hair. He knew his dad wasn’t messing around. Wyre had given up his own brother. It wasn’t a stretch to suggest he’d do the same with his son.
“B-b-but what do I do?” Orven gasped, panic in his eyes. “I c-can’t fight a m-mage and if he really is g-going to put his h-hand –”
“If you doan get over it and get back out there makin’ money, you’ll wish he pulled your heart out!” Wyre turned away to the door, breaking eye contact, and despite the candour of his words he heard Orven loosing his breath in relief. “At least it’d be fast – nothin’ like what I’ve got in store.”
“Alright, Da’. Alright.”
It better be.
He slammed the door behind him as he exited the room, and took a few gulps of the far-fresher air out in the corridor before continuing on his way.
* * *
27th Mortifost, 998 NE
The Western Wench was Wyre’s favourite watering hole – they always kept the fires well-stoked – and if he deigned to show up on any given night it would always create a bit of a buzz in the atmosphere. Even those regulars who had nothing to do with the Bertie Boys knew full-well where the tavern’s affiliations lay – who protected it – and if they didn’t rock the boat, they might even end up with a free round when Wyre was in good humour.
This evening Wyre was not in good humour. He entered, scowling, and a hush fell across the patrons, even those with two girls in their laps. He swiftly scanned around through the smoke, ensuring the environment was safe, then stomped over towards his regular booth without saying a word. Jerle would handle that.
His minions were on his heels, over a dozen of them, and he hadn’t got half way to the bench when he heard his captain calling out to the barman for their usuals to be brought over.
There would be no discussion of prices, money trading hands. If it’d just been Jarle and his crew, sure. But not when Wyre was here. Not when the Lultons or Ginnel Gram were about.
Slowly, normal conversations resumed, the love-girls and -boys going back to their tasks, the brain-damaged kid in the corner raising his flute again to his lips. (Damn kid couldn’t string more than three words together, but give him a flute and he was a demigod.) Wyre settled into the centre of the high-backed bench, nestling down into the cushions left here just for him. His chief cronies occupied the seats either side of him and across from him, the rest filing into the next two adjacent booths as well.
If you had power, you might as well flaunt it. If you had a couple of dozen thieves and killers to reward, there were worse ways than booze on tap and women on call. Fear and loyalty; once a man like Wyre had it down, he knew he had the formula to stay on top like this forever.
“I fancy a Ripplemead’s tonight,” he muttered.
“Oi! Dreyna!” Jerle yelled. “Make the boss’s a Ripple!”
“Sure thing!” The serving-girl reached under the counter for the special cask, the one that only the heads of the family could get opened. “Just be a minute!”
“Get yer act together,” Jerle called back, but it was just a gesture, a token phrase; Dreyna was no spring chicken, and she would know he didn’t mean any harm.
Once the beers were served, half the lads disappeared with theirs into the back rooms while Wyre and his hardiest minions settled in for some heavy drinking. It’d been a bad day.
The gods cursed me. The Liberator of Zadhal. A bona fide freakin’ champion.
“Feychilde,” he moaned into his pint. “Why’s it have to be droppin’ Feychilde?”
“He might be wrong, boss,” Lark piped up. “Come on, you know what Orven’s…”
Lark took one look at the expression on Wyre’s face and fell silent.
“Nah, I reckon the little git’s as right about this as he’s ever been.” Wyre ticked off the points on his fingers. “First Feychilde appears. Suddenly Peltos starts actin’ all shifty, then Sorban gets harassed and Old Tibbey’s gets done over… I bet that was him. And then the wings. The droppin’ wings. Everyone’s seen them. It shoulda been obvious.” He clenched his fist. “Stickin’ his hand in me son’s chest – that’s just the icin’ on the cake. Is it a vendetta? Is he tryin’ to take me down?”
No one spoke for a few moments, slurping in silence.
“Wassen it a magister what come smashing Peltos’s wall?” Hadin said at last.
“That come,” Wyre corrected with a growl. “An’ yeah. Yeah it was. That’s when he first started brickin’ it, moaning about the warehouses…”
“Wonder if any o’ the Gennelmen got a clue on this,” Lark commented in a musing tone. “Garet told me it wasn’t the first magister he seen that night – then we was both there at Old –”
“You what?” Wyre hissed.
“Yeah – the magister what – that – hurt his arm. Some ghost-thing, he says. And her, he seen her early that night, at some kid’s house. Another magister there, I reckons.”
Wyre looked at Hadin. “Go fetch me Garet.”
“Aw, but boss –“
“You can finish the beer when you get back, an’ if you’re quick enough I might even let you off with the scar you deserve for tryin’ to wheedle out of it.”
Hadin was out of his seat in a jiffy, and, by the time the surface of his beer stopped wobbling with the impact of tankard upon table, he’d already disappeared through the tavern’s front door.
It only took him twenty minutes to get back, and he had the Gentleman in tow. Big, blond-haired Garet had a wary expression on his face as he followed Hadin out of the smoke.
“Alright, boss?” Garet asked.
Wyre narrowed his eyes. ‘Alright, boss’ would normally be a statement. Not a question.
“Pull up a chair, Garet,” Wyre replied. “’Ave a beer.”
“Don’t mind if I do, ta.”
Wyre waved Dreyna over, but even when Garet had his mouth firmly fixed to the lip of his tankard he was still looking wary.
“What’s up, lad?” Wyre asked him. “You nervous?”
“Nah, boss.” Garet put down his half-drunk ale. “Just, you know… wonderin’ what all this is about. Not that I ain’t appreciatin’ the beer, obviously! It’s just Peltos wanted me to go clean out –“
“I don’t care what Peltos wants.” Wyre’s voice was low. “You shouldn’t either, if you wanna keep your head above the water. You get me, Garet?”
“I-I get you, boss.” His large eyes were wide, fixed on Wyre, unblinking, unthinking.
“He’s a good lad, issen ‘e?” Wyre grinned at his underlings, saw their ingratiating grins in response, then turned back to Peltos’s minion. “Arm all fixed up, is it?”
“Good as new, boss. That what you wanted to know? I’m fit to do my bit, boss, trust me.”
“Nah, all it is, Garet, is this… You know who Feychilde is.”
He had turned the tables on the Gentleman. It should’ve been a question, but it was a statement. He saw the startled look swiftly cross the man’s bland features, the flash of panic in his eyes.
“No way, boss! Feychilde? Why would I…?”
Garet did his best to make his voice plaintive, let it carry his natural sincerity – but the haste of the reply, the little click in his throat when he tried to trail off – these things were what betrayed him.
“Now I want you to think very carefully, Garet.” Wyre spoke quietly, his tone not intense but friendly or even casual. It was dreadful for them to hear, he knew, and he saw them all react accordingly, never mind Garet himself who blenched instantly, twisting in his chair, colour flushing out of his face. “Garet. I will give you one more chance, an’ then we will see what has to be done with you. I believe you know somethin’ about Feychilde, about his plans for me. Convince me otherwise. Convince me, please… or you know what’s comin’.”
Garet’s eyes were filling with tears.
“But – boss,” he whispered, “he ain’t no trouble. He’s one o’ them good ones. An’ – an’ he got this kid brother and sister, they got no one else and they’re broke…”
His voice faded away – clearly the Gentleman was beginning to understand the absurdity of his words.
“Broke?” Wyre snarled, then laughed. “A good one? Did he get in your head, boy?”
“Nah!” Garet sat back, clearly offended at the insinuation, which was reassuring – but also far too assertive.
Wyre didn’t need to move. Didn’t need to speak.
His stare did it all for him – within a few seconds Garet seemed to realise once more who he was speaking to.
“Nah,” the Gentleman said more softly, lowering his eyes in deference. “I’ll tell you – I’ll tell you who he is, boss. Where he lives, whatever you want. I ain’t never spoke to him, I swears. But… boss… he’s Feychilde… He didn’t even call the watch on us… and what in Twelve Hells can we do about him? I get he might be bad for business, but –“
“It was him that stuck his hand in Orven’s chest,” Wyre said.
“Oh.” Garet paled once again. “Ohhh. Five save us.”
“Right?” Wyre sat back, smiling, feeling satisfied. “You can finish your beer, Garet, while you give me every bit of information you think might be handy. Cos you’re gonna be helping us with this, you understand that, right? Until I’m a hundred percent convinced you aren’t workin’ for him, you’re gonna be workin’ for me. I’ll let Peltos know, don’t you worry. And maybe between us, we can fix this up good and proper. Get ridda Feychilde. Get Peltos back on track. Get Old Tibbey sleepin’ again at night.”
And get my son out of the gods-cursed house at last.
“Okay, boss… Look, this kid, Kastyr Mor-something – Morden, maybe –“
“Mortenn,” Wyre breathed.
“Mortenn – right…”
“Kastyr Mortenn.” The old man sat back and closed his eyes, a gesture of vulnerability that all his boys gathered here would know they were blessed to witness. “Kastyr.”
“What is it, boss?” Garet moaned.
Jerle answered for him:
“The boss killed ‘is parents.”
* * *
29th Mortifost, 998 NE
He was better at waiting these days, he realised. Over the decades his patience had stretched, elastic like sinew, until by now he was virtually untroubled as he sat at his desk, leafing through his ledgers. The figures all looked okay. Business wasn’t great, but it hadn’t dipped into dangerous territory either. Not yet. However, Zandrina loomed on the horizon. Nine ninety-nine was going to be a tumultuous year, he knew. His boys would be tested, and it was likely their knives would be blooded nightly for weeks.
But they would come out the other side with their territory intact, he knew. He’d attended a meeting this afternoon on neutral ground, speaking in person with the other leaders from the northern regions of Sticktown: Bucker Daine, of the Cutter Crew, and Branton Kade, of the Wallside Gang. The Knuckle-Heads hadn’t been invited, on account of their meagre presence, but Papa Roon had found out anyway and came along, surprising them with his appearance. (Papa Roon’s mole was in the Wallside Gang, a fact which Kade’s speculation and Papa Roon’s evasiveness immediately confirmed. The traitor in question would already be holidaying on the bottom of the Blackrush by now, no doubt.) The long-and-short of the palaver was that they would band together temporarily, in order to face this threat head-on, each devoting equal numbers of foot-troops to the effort. When it came to expending other resources, such as money for bribes, inkatra-heads for firepower and so forth – such things would be decided on a more short-term basis.
Zandrina has the firepower advantage, Wyre reminded himself. She has all the access, and what do we have? Our stockpiles, stored up against the day she makes her move. Does she even know we aren’t selling more than ten percent of it?
The magical herb had a shelf-life too, he knew. Its power faded the longer it spent curing. He hadn’t had enough time to find out how long it took to lose its power entirely, if that was in fact what would happen… He’d used his freshest stuff on his smartest inkatra-addicts to plan tonight, but, according to the reports, three of them had just started ranting about a Yearsend present, and those were the most coherent ones – the rest talked about bubbles you could feel without seeing them and such other idiocies.
Droppin’ inkatra…
Either way, he’d have his answer momentarily –
Footsteps in the corridor. A rapid knocking at the door.
“Come in!” he barked, the anticipation he’d held back suddenly bursting the dam-walls, the thrill coming over him at once –
What will be the news? Do they have him?
But he could tell at once from the facial expressions worn by his underlings as they filed into the room –
“You failed,” he said bitterly.
“Boss!” Lark cried. “Boss – it’s unreal, right – you woulden believe it –“
“These walls – invisible walls!” Garet blurted.
“Yeah, right? And you can’t see ‘em but if you put out your hand –“
“It’s just like what we saw at Old Tibbey’s – well, you know, not saw, but, like something there, that ain’t even there –“
“Enough!” Wyre snapped, holding up his hand. “I heard enough. Get outta here, both of you, before I do somethin’ someone else regrets.”
They exited almost as quickly as they’d entered, Lark, the last to leave, closing the door softly behind him.
Wyre set down the ledger, put his feet up on the desk and sat back, closing his eyes.
He could still remember it. The last time he’d committed a proper murder. Oh, killing captive rivals dragged to blubber at his feet, killing wayward Bertie Boys who tattled to his opponents – that didn’t count. But a true killing – that was the Mortenns.
Is it cos they were the last ones? Or is it cos I threw Toras on the gallows in my place?
Frustration slowly faded, bubbles of consternation reducing, tempering into anger.
How did you find out it was me, boy? Invisible walls. Bubbles… Really, Feychilde? Did you know I was coming? Did you know the tables have turned against you, mighty champion, Liberator of Nothin’ and No-one?
Scenarios churned through his mind, the imagined violence that made him feel more alive than ever before, making the hairs on his arms stand up, making his spine tingle
I’ll have your heart in my hands, archmage. Like I shoulda done with my idiot brother – I’ll do it meself. I’ll have your apologies and then I’ll cut it right out of you. Cut it out and let you look at it before I let you go.
You’re mine, boy.
* * *
1st Yearsend, 998 NE
The Western Wench was the perfect staging area for the strike. He’d had the owners lock the doors, spreading word that a fire had gutted the interior – and paid them a hefty sum out of his own pocket so that they didn’t kick up a fuss about their losses. The inkatra spent getting the illusory smoke right was another expense to add to the list. Still, it was a fraction of what it’d cost him to bribe the watchmen to steer clear, maybe have a sergeant brush a few reports under the carpet… Ridiculous. But he couldn’t afford for word to get out, not with his life on the line like this. Not with an archmage to trap.
The tavern wasn’t two minutes’ walk from the Gold Griffin, but it was still six or seven corners away, so they wouldn’t be seen coming until they were within spitting distance. He’d gathered almost twenty of the lads here, with another dozen protecting key locations – and they’d all been waiting in position for the last thirty-six hours. He didn’t give a damn about Yearsend, family, none of that drop – and the grumblers who couldn’t take the strain would be punished as he saw fit.
The Bertie Boys knew it. Those waiting with him in the tavern, at least. They didn’t grumble. They behaved as professionals, sharpening weapons, going over their plans, sleeping in shifts.
It was mid-morning when Jerle entered through the double doors, leading a ten- or eleven-year-old with a scarf around his neck.
Wyre felt the tingle up his spine once more, and straightened on his cushions, moving aside his ale tankard.
“Ticken, innit?”
The boy blinked, the motion barely visible through the mop of brown hair covering his eyes. His lips were parted in awe, but his tongue wasn’t waking up.
“Ticken Sawdan,” Jerle said when the boy didn’t respond.
“You look nice an’ impressed with me,” Wyre complimented the youngster. “But it’s time to open your trap, kid. Like you was told, your family’s gettin’ either a great big Yearsend pressie every year till me and mine are dust – or somethin’ else.”
He left the threat vague. A sprat like this one would probably pass out if he said what was actually on his mind.
“He’s g-gone,” Ticken managed to say. “Kas, I mean – he’s gone. The – his –“ The kid swallowed, closing his eyes, then forced the words out in an angry voice: “Jaroan. They’re outside, in the lane. The tw-twins.”
“We’ll never get an opportunity like this again, boss,” Lark commented from the bench opposite him.
“It’s do or die,” Wyre said in agreement, getting to his feet and putting his hands on his knife-hilts. He wore the weapons openly on his belt for the first time in years. “Gods, this feels good. Doessen it feel good?”
The Bertie Boys gathered around him and behind him as they made their way through the double-doors of the Western Wench, stepping out into the muck as a single big group – but none of them actually walked ahead of him, even on the flanks of the crowd. There were few wagons out on the roadways, what with this being the morning of gift-giving and all, but those rare individuals who appeared in the gang’s path made damn sure they were off the road when the Boys strode by.
When they reached the Gold Griffin, Wyre came to a halt, leaving a solid twenty feet of distance between him and the end of Mud Lane, putting the pub between him and his targets.
No one was speaking. They knew what they had to do. Nods of heads were all that was required. One by one, leaving a good twenty seconds gap between them, the Boys started going around the Griffin, heading down the lane. They would travel at a leisurely pace, start loitering – nothing overt.
The first one to get close would grab the kids. Both of them, preferably, but one would do. One would be enough to bring the ‘champion’ to heel.
After two minutes he couldn’t take it anymore, and with a quick gesture the next Bertie Boy stopped in his tracks, letting the boss go in his place.
Wyre followed the path that skirted the pub, turned and looked down the lane – and it had gone wrong.
The kids – nowhere to be seen. His Boys… disappearing into a stairwell that ran up the side of the apartment-block halfway down on the right.
“Boys, on me!” he roared, setting off down the incline.
He wouldn’t sprint – he would stroll. The last ten or so of his minions still lingering behind the Griffin now surged out of hiding, splashing through the drop to catch him up, then slowed once they reached him, keeping behind him again.
Like the rats they were, the denizens of the lane scurried indoors or at least moved out of sight as soon as they saw him coming, allowing their betters to pass without obstacle. By the time Wyre reached the stairs and climbed them to the third floor, a tide of fists and knives at his back, he realised from the commotion that a stalemate of some kind had been reached. It took him a moment to work out what had happened.
Six of the Boys were there. Garet had his back to the balcony, and he was pinning back the arms of a short, attractive woman. (She was just Wyre’s type, young, dark-skinned and shapely, with black, tangled hair – if only she was a bit taller…)
By the looks of how even muscle-bound Garet was struggling to restrain her, she was stronger than she seemed. She wasn’t screaming or yelling, but she was fighting.
Then Wyre noticed Lark, sitting on the planks with bloody hands pressed across his clearly-broken nose, and his respect for the woman rose again.
Opposite Garet and his captive, an open apartment door loomed – and everyone’s words and attention seemed to be focussed on the occupants.
Why aren’t they going in? Wyre wondered; it was only as he reached the crowd and stepped in front of them that he felt the very magic they’d told him about, jarring his motion aside slightly: an invisible barrier, curving up and around slightly out of the door-frame. There wasn’t even a smudge on the air, but it was as solid as steel, textureless, like hard water.
Garet was holding the woman less than twelve inches from it, and Wyre was pretty certain the barrier would let her pass.
“Good job, Garet,” he said, putting all his approval into his voice, turning his head to peer through into the apartment. “What ‘ave we ‘ere then.”
The two kids were right in front of him. Straw-haired, skinny-looking runts. The boy had a fire in his eyes as he stared right back at Wyre and the others, but the girl was behind him with panic on her face, raising a chunk of crystal up in front of her face –
A glyphstone! his mind barked at him.
The pair were right there, six feet away, and a thousand miles. They were somewhere he couldn’t go.
“Throw a knife,” he growled.
“Tried it, boss,” one of the lads said sullenly.
“Bounced, like,” Jerle commented.
“Then we’ll go one better.” Wyre drew his own blade, his favourite, from his left hip into his right hand. He grabbed the hair of the woman in Garet’s arms, brought her face down savagely, settling the serrated teeth at the base of the dagger-blade against her windpipe.
“Oi kid! Jaid! Put that thing down or she bleeds out, ‘ere an’ now!”
To help deliver his point he dragged a few steel teeth across just the top few layers of her skin. Not enough to open her airway. Just enough to agonise her.
He’d lost none of his skill. The flesh parted like a flower blooming red.
She made sound, not a scream but a hissing whine – yet she held herself even more still, submitting to his grasp, his knife.
She might be useful, this one, he thought. She’s resilient.
There were any number of uses such a woman could be put. He favoured the games – female gladiators were a rarity, and once he removed their tongues they never found a way to seek help. His handlers shaved their heads, tattooed them, strapped them in armour and furs – no one ever recognised them at a distance from the stands. This one could be put to such a purpose – or others… Some people liked them with a bit of fight left in them.
He didn’t turn to look into the doorway. That would be weakness. It was up to these twins now – he just kept at his task, moving the knife a little lower and then dragging it through the skin again, and again –
Lark, cradling his face, muttered, “Sheeb’s stobbed, bosh.”
At the same time, two kiddie voices started wailing behind him, begging him to let her go.
He took a moment, making another deft slice, before halting his hand as if merely hesitating, swivelling his head to look around at them:
“Oh? Why stop? Are you comin’ out, or am I killin’ this one?”
He saw the glyphstone, lying dark at the girl’s feet. That meant nothing now, though. She could’ve got something through, even if she’d only had a few seconds, couldn’t she? He wasn’t sure – you couldn’t use glyphstones for anything illegal, not without risking being exposed to a magister at the network who was watching – but he suspected she’d done something with it.
“You could k-kill her anyway, if we come out,” the boy said, his voice shaking, but not as much as Wyre might’ve expected.
“True, Jaroan,” he replied, grinning. “But I can’t as throw her in, and trust you to your word, can I now, young man?”
“I’ll come. You return her.”
“No!” Jaid screamed, leaping forward and grabbing her brother’s arm –
At the same time the woman, whose hair he was still holding tightly, pulled back a little and started shouting at the twins:
“Don’t you dare move!”
Wyre sighed.
“One of you ain’t enough, kids,” he growled at them. “I want you both. Now.”
He placed the serrated teeth of the blade against her jugular, this time, and went a little deeper. He let a bit of his savageness out.
Now the woman shrieked, out of the shock, the suddenness of it –
A neighbour opened their door, their face contorted in outrage – an expression that swiftly melted to fright, the door slamming closed again immediately, when they saw just who it was on their porch.
“Okay!” Jaroan cried. “My sister first!”
The girl started blubbering.
“Your sister?” Hadin sneered. “You cowardly little git.”
“You reeking idiot,” the blond kid said, looking up disdainfully at the guy. Hadin wasn’t tall, but he was still head and shoulders above Jaroan – yet somehow that didn’t really seem to matter.
“Confident behind that… spell thing, aren’t you, little git.” Hadin spat the words. “Wait till you’re out –“
“Shut – your – face before I cut it off,” Wyre hissed at the fool, then turned back to the boy. “I get it. ‘E doessen, but I do. You send her cos I know you won’t let her go with me alone. I like it. You’re clever, lad. I won’t mistreat you.” He hardened his voice, lowered it: “Now throw her ‘ere before I change my mind.”
Lips firmly fixed in a line, the little kid wrestled his sister towards the edge of the barrier.
Hands grasped Jaid, and held her, and soon muffled her shrill yells. They didn’t cover her wild, roving eyes though.
“N-now her,” Jaroan murmured, suddenly looking sick.
Wyre smiled again, assessed the woman, and clocked her in the side of the chin with a solid left hook.
She sagged, but it took another punch before her eyes rolled back. Garet leaned forwards, lowering her into the barrier.
The wide-eyed boy caught her, dragged her away, and placed her head as gently as he could manage on the wooden floor…
Silence fell across the lot of them, and Jaroan looked back and forth across the faces surrounding him, all of their eyes glaring at him, even his sister’s –
“Lad…” Wyre said in a tone of warning.
No warning was really needed. He had the boy’s sister. Twin sister. There was no way he was going to do something stupid. Not like this.
Jaroan stepped forwards, eyes on his feet, biting his lip and blinking frantically in terror.
It was a sweet thing, to inflict such fear. Especially in the kin of an archmage who was waging a silent war on Wyre and his friends. This was a glorious day.
Wyre felt it as the smile on his face became a smirk, almost a grimace, nearly painful in its intensity.
He turned away, the Bertie Boys who’d been gathered behind him opening up their ranks to admit him, and he made his way back to the stairwell, descending to the street. They all fell into line in his wake, tramping down the steps.
When he reached the mud of Mud Lane he looked behind him, and saw that the girl was bucking and kicking, being carried – but the boy was walking with his head bowed, needing only a big, heavy hand on his shoulder to enforce his captivity.
It all went to plan, he thought in wonder. Or as close to plan as it could’ve.
Feychilde’s brother and sister under his power, Wyre led the Bertie Boys back to the base, and sat down in the midst of his minions, still smirking, preparing himself.
Waiting.
He was better at waiting these days.
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