Guilty as Sin (20 page)

Michael
‟
s smooth throat, the man helpless as a
bunrat
in the claws of a
highhunter
. Oh

yes. He
‟
d drag him close, watch those bright hazel eyes widen. But not with fear, oh no.

The thief would grin, reckless to the end, daring Dax to take what he wanted, what he

needed more than breath—

Dax shoved the tankard aside so violently ale sloshed over the rim to puddle on the

table. His hearts galloped, something heavy and sullen burning in his gut. Michael was

a bad man, a creature without a moral compass, a thief and a murderer. Irredeemable.

When the Prince
‟
s guards caught up with him, as they inevitably must, he
‟
d be hung,

drawn and quartered. Dax swallowed the bile that rose in his throat.

And yet…

I don’t go where I’m not welcome
. And he hadn
‟
t.

Nonetheless, it was blindingly obvious the thief was playing him, and gods,

Daxariel the Burnished refused to be played. He wasn
‟
t prone to violence. Hell, he was

so peaceable he knew he
‟
d never make First Pinion, despite having all the skills and

98

more. He couldn
‟
t even be bothered to argue, because once he was settled in his mind,

nothing deflected him from his purpose.

If only he could be certain what his purpose was…

At his elbow, Pammie said, “I
‟
ve made the
roberry
fresh. Ye wan
‟
some?”

Dax glanced up, forcing a smile. “Please. Back in a minute.” Rising, he made his

way to the inn
‟
s noisome privy. It required all his concentration to keep his wings clear

of the grimy walls and his tail out of the muck, so he finished as quickly as possible.

Even so, the
roberry
was waiting for him, steaming gently, by the time he returned.

Still standing, he lifted it to his lips and froze. A slip of paper lay on the table,

stained with a ring the same diameter as the mug.

In a scrawl bereft of both penmanship and punctuation, it said,
fnd vel corna bmbl ali

midn st cum qik.

Frowning, Dax lowered himself to the stool. It looked like something one of

Fledge
‟
s kids would write. He sounded the words under his breath.
fnd vel
. Oh,
found

Veryl
. His hearts sped up.
Corner Bumble Alley and Midden Street. Come quick.

Fumbling in his belt pouch, he surged to his feet. “Pammie!” He beckoned.

When she bustled over, he waved the note under her nose. “Who gave you this?”

Her brow creased. “What, that? No one.”

“Then how did it get under my
roberry
mug?” He held up a whole half mark. “Tell

me.”

Her avid gaze latched on to the coin, but she shrugged. “Dunno, hautlord. Weren
‟
t

me though.”

He glanced around. The inn was crowded, the air reeking of sweat and stale beer. It

could have been anyone, from the laborer with the dusty boots to the weary doxy with

the improbably scarlet mouth.

“All right.” He tossed down a handful of coins. “Where does Midden Street meet

Bumble Alley?”

“Western end, halfway down the hill.”

Dax grinned, his blood pumping. “Anyone upstairs?”

“Not on the top floor. Window sticks though.” She laid work-roughened fingers on

his sleeve. “Be careful, hautlord.”

Dax headed for the narrow staircase. “You too, Pammie,” he flung over his

shoulder. “My regards to your mother.”

By the time he wrestled the window open, he was seething with impatience.

Bursting into the air, he banked, getting his bearings. No problem, he
‟
d be there in less

than five minutes. His grin was savage. Michael wouldn
‟
t expect that.

As a precaution, he spiraled down to an easy landing in the backyard of a

tumbledown house, but when he strolled around the corner into Bumble Alley, no one

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among the open-mouthed onlookers stepped up to meet him. Godsdammit. Irritably, he

shuffled his wings.

“Hey, birdy!” piped a high voice. Someone tugged at a flight feather.

With a growl of fury, Dax whirled around, grabbed and lifted. “Don
‟
t…” He

blinked into a small, dirty face. “Touch…the wings.” He lowered the small, wriggling

object to the ground.

“Ye the birdy, aincha?” Unfazed, the child brushed himself—herself?—down, not

that Dax could see it made any difference to the general distribution of grime.

He relaxed. “I
‟
m an Aetherii, if that
‟
s what you mean.”

“Huh.” He got a dark look from under a tangled hank of hair. “Michael says t
‟
meet

‟
im at the west gate. Yer man
‟
s gettin
‟
away.”

Godsdammit, the Slopes were a maze of narrow, crooked streets and there wasn
‟
t a

building high enough in two blocks. He
‟
d have to—

Another tug. “I
‟
ll take ye.” A pause. “Fer a feather.”

No time, no time. “Done. Which way?”

Another flat glare. “In advance.”

“Veil-it, you
‟
re bold. How do you know I won
‟
t snap your neck like a twig?”

A flash of teeth. “Michael sed ye wouldna.” A thin dirty hand was extended.

Dax spread a wing and rummaged, testing each plume in turn. The child
‟
s mouth

fell open. “Fuck,” it said.

“Here.” Bracing himself, he plucked. “Let
‟
s go.”

Without another word, the child snatched the feather and darted into an alleyway.

Like most Aetherii, Dax had a good sense of direction, but after the first dozen turns, he

lost track. He was pretty certain they were moving west though. After ten minutes, they

emerged onto a square choked with carts, each with its yoked team of shaggy
herdbeasts

or
vranee
. The air was full of lowing and hoots, thick with the sharp ammonia smell of

animal piss.

A skinny finger pointed to a broader avenue. “Down there.”

“Wait.” Dax grabbed a shoulder before the child could turn away. “You heard of

Fledge
‟
s school?”

He got an affirmative grunt.

“Go there tomorrow morning. Say I sent you and you
‟
ll get fed.” The bones beneath

his palm felt heartbreakingly fragile.

The child shrugged itself away. “Hssrda took them kids.” A lip curled. “Fuck, ye

think I
‟
m stoopid?”

A final glare and it ducked behind a noodle cart and disappeared.

A conversational voice said in his ear, “She
‟
s going to sell it, you know.”

Dax
‟
s hearts collided in his chest. Fixing his gaze on a
vran
being persuaded into

harness, he said, “It
‟
s a girl then?”

100

“Think so.” Michael stepped around to face him. “Never bothered to check.”

He wore a carter
‟
s broad-brimmed hat, and Dax was obscurely pleased that the

thief had to tip up his chin in order to meet his eyes. He stood a little straighter, his

wings flexing above his shoulders. “Veryl?” he said crisply.

Michael
‟
s face darkened. “You took your godsbedamned time, birdy. Veryl hired a

vran
and rode out an hour ago.”

“So?” He flicked the thief
‟
s shoulder with his tail, faster than a whiplash. When

Michael
‟
s breath hissed between his teeth, Dax rumbled his satisfaction. “Why didn
‟
t

you follow?”

He got a scowl. “I was fuckin
‟
waitin
‟
for you.”

“Really?” Dax scanned the square. There was a clock tower over there that might

do. It was certainly higher than any of the surrounding buildings. “Lise got a report that

a Hssrda caravan came out of the Empty Lands a week ago heading for Crastin Market.

He
‟
ll be going to meet them.”

There was a short silence. “To haggle, yes.”

“Hmm.” Their eyes met. Something fierce tightened Dax
‟
s chest. It felt like hunger,

like joy. “How
‟
s your head for heights, thief?”

Michael grinned, his teeth very white. “How do you think?”

“That tavern has a nice high roof.” Dax pointed.

The thief eyed it calmly. “So it does.” Without another word, he turned and walked

away. A second later, he
‟
d disappeared into the crowd.

Dax chuckled out loud. He couldn
‟
t help but admire a man with balls like that.

A moment later, he strolled around to the back of the clock tower and hefted the

padlock that secured the small, wooden door in one big fist. A deft twist, and it came

away in his hand. Ah well, accidents happened.

He grinned as he took the spiral staircase two at a time. Michael of Sere was

contagious.

Once airborne, it was pure joy to spread his wings and feel the slipstream ruffle his

flight feathers. He could see Michael on the tavern roof, a small straight-backed figure

silhouetted against the sun. He knew the moment the thief spotted him, the man
‟
s head

went up, his whole posture changing. Instinctively, Dax calculated speed, wind and

distance. Dropping a little so he
‟
d be on an upward trajectory, he separated his primary

feathers like spread fingers, lifting his huge wings up, up, up. Then down, the muscles

of his shoulders singing with the flex of muscle and the pump of blood.

The wind of his passage whistled past his ears as his speed increased. Gods, he was

going to enjoy this!

Michael
‟
s head turned, obviously tracking Dax
‟
s progress. Suddenly, his teeth

flashed in a wild grin and he stepped out onto the ridge pole of the roof, his arms

spread wide for balance. Without a wobble, he walked out to the very edge of the

101

gutter, his back to the hard cobbles three stories below, all his attention on the Aetherii.

Take me
, he was saying.
I dare you. I trust you
.

Dax
‟
s shout of laughter was ripped to tatters by the scream of the wind.
So be it.

He hit Michael without the slightest diminution of speed, arms reaching to grab,

fingers sinking into the thief
‟
s flesh with bruising strength.

“
Oompf!
”

With the addition of Michael
‟
s dead weight, they dropped like a stone, but Dax was

ready. Gathering the other man close to his chest, he brought his wings down in a

mighty sweep, grunting with effort. Passing the second-floor windows, they leveled

out. With a grin of triumph, he began to beat upward.