The Thorn of Dentonhill (20 page)

Veranix had been paying enough attention to answer that. “That would be Cedidore II.”

The whole class gasped. “Is he right?” Besker asked, looking around, hobbling over to some other student in the front row.

The student's lip quivered as he answered, “No, Professor.”

“No, he isn't,” Besker said, slamming his walking stick on the poor student's desk. “Cedidore II is the king of Druthalia Proper. And there is no kingdom of Druthal in 765, nor a king of Druthal. That's why the era is called the Shattered Kingdom, Mister Calbert. Name the various countries that stood in place of the Kingdom of Druthal.”

All eyes were on Veranix again. He dug through his brain to find something geographic. The only thing that came to mind was the full circuit of the circus, starting from the south of Druthal. “Scaloi, Yinara, Linjar, Kesta, Monim, Oblune . . .” The look on Professor Besker's face was encouraging. “Acora, Patyma, Maradaine, Sauriya.”

Professor Besker shook his head. “Congratulations, Mister Calbert. You have just named the
current
archduchies. Mister Sarren, perhaps you might have better luck.”

Delmin gave an apologetic glance at Veranix. “Druthalia Proper, Free Opsika, Scaloi, Yinara, Linjar, Kesta, Monim, Oblune, Patyma, Acoria, Brellin, and the city-state of Monitel.”

Professor Besker gave an impressed nod to Delmin. “Including Monitel was a nice touch. I'll make a merit mark in your record. To balance out the demerit mark in Mister Calbert's. To continue, Cedidore II put his five brothers in charge of the military in the different regions of Druthalia Proper, and these brothers all become key figures in untangling the royal lineages that follow for the next century.”

Veranix closed up the journal and gave his full attention to the lecture. He didn't need to figure any more out, not now. His leg bouncing, fingers tapping, he did his best to learn about King Cedidore II, the Shattered Kingdom, and whatever else he needed to know to pass exams. He didn't need his marks dropping any further.

Veranix did not sprint across the lawn to the south gate, as much as he wanted to. He had to know what else was going on tonight. He knew Colin wouldn't want him to go out, but that was too bad. This was too sweet a cherry not to eat.

He passed the gate and immediately found a street rat in his face.

“What's your pleasure, Uni?” he asked. “What can we do for you?”

“Not in—” Veranix started, about to brush the guy aside. Then he saw, this rat had his shirtsleeves rolled up, his Rose Street tattoo in full display. The Princes were at the gate. That was a good sign. Perhaps things had cooled since last night, and the Princes could push back and reclaim this block. Veranix coughed and began again. “Not anything much. I was thinking Rose & Bush.”

“Fine choice, my friend,” the Prince said, all oil and charm. “Let's make sure you get there proper, right?”

“Proper?” Veranix asked.

“Oy, there's been trouble,” the Prince said with a nod, waving at Veranix to walk with him. They headed over to Rose Street. The action on the street was subdued, hardly anyone hawking from the curb. The Prince smiled and waved at one shopkeeper, who waved back tentatively. “That's how it goes, you know. You probably heard one of yours was knocked and hassled out here.”

“I think I heard something about it,” Veranix said.

“That ain't good for no one. We like the Uni boys, they do good business. Isn't that right, Mister Ressitor?” He shouted this question out to a man sweeping at the doorway to bakery.

“Very much so,” Mister Ressitor said. “You need a cake, Hetzer? You got a sweetheart who wants a cake?”

“Girl I want don't want a cake from me,” Hetzer said. “Uni boy, you need a cake?”

“Not today I don't,” Veranix said. He couldn't help but smile. “When I do, though . . .”

“I will make you the best cake.”

“He sure will,” Hetzer said. “I'll see you later, Mister Ressitor.”

“Yes, of course,” Ressitor said. They walked on. As they approached the intersection of Rose Street, Veranix noticed many loose papers on the ground, strewn about and stamped on, all around the neighborhood.

“He's a good man,” Hetzer said. “Good cakes, really.”

“Someone do a paper job?” Veranix asked. He bit his tongue as soon as the words came out.

“That's good, Uni,” Hetzer said, cackling. “That's right.”

“I've heard it said.” He picked up one of the pages.

“You got good ears on you, I'll give you that,” Hetzer snapped the paper out of Veranix's hand before he could look at it. “Ain't nothing. Nothing you need worry 'bout, you know.”

“Right,” Veranix said. He gave an exaggerated nod. “Street business.”

“That's the deal.” Hetzer's tone turned oddly hard. “We like you Uni boys, I said, but ain't your worry.”

“Fair enough,” Veranix said. He was about to ask Hetzer another question when Colin rushed over to them, grabbing Hetzer by the shirt.

“Blazes you doin', Hetz?” he asked. Confusion raced over Hetzer's face.

“Doin' a safe walk with a Uni boy. I was working the gate like we said.”

“Right, right,” Colin said, pushing Hetzer away. He didn't look at Veranix, not even a glance. “Where you takin' him?”

“Rose & Bush,” Veranix offered.

“Well, it's just over there,” Colin said, still talking to Hetzer. “He can see it, you get back to the gate and earn your place.”

“I earn it, damn it!” Hetzer said. “If you weren't screaming and spooking—”

“I'll spook who I spook!” Colin sputtered. Eyes never flashing at Veranix he said, “He walked you, you gonna give him his due?”

“Of course,” Veranix said. He dug out a half-crown, which was more than Hetzer would normally expect. He handed it to Hetzer, and looked pointedly at Colin. “Is that good?”

“Ain't no matter to me what you do, Uni boy,” Colin said. He stalked off, pushing through Veranix, heading away from the Rose & Bush.

“Aye, right,” Hetzer said. He straightened up, jutting his chin proudly. He pointed down the street. “Rose & Bush, Uni. You be safe, right?”

“Right,” Veranix said. Hetzer walked away. Veranix stood still for a few moments and then picked up another of the pages lying on the street.

The paper was just a small square, barely bigger than his hand, with a picture printed in red ink. The picture was a caricature of a street rat, specifically a Rose Street Prince, since he was sticking his arm out to show his tattoo. The arm was freakishly large in the picture, and the rose tattoo was shown in as intricate detail as a woodcut print could manage. Veranix had to admit that the work was impressive. Next to the street rat's head were the words in block letters, “NO THORNS HERE.”

Veranix looked back and saw Colin stalking into the Turnabout. He considered chasing after, but realized it was pointless. The message was clear enough. Colin had nothing more to say.

Veranix's stomach growled at him, so he continued over to the Rose & Bush.

The place was quiet, no customers save two old men playing cards in the corner. Both of them looked wiry and lean, dressed in clothes that were well-patched enough to look decent. Veranix sat at a table close enough to keep an eye and an ear on them.

The server came out of the kitchen and headed straight to Veranix. “Cider or beer?”

“Cider,” Veranix said. “What's in the kitchen today?”

“There's a Rancher's Pot, and hot sausages—”

“Lamb?” Veranix asked.

“Pork,” the server said, shaking his head. He sneered. “You don't want it.”

“Fair enough.”

“There's Chicken Thalin,” the server suggested.

“Really?”

“That's what the cook called it.”

“Then that's what it'll be.”

“Three ticks for the lot.”

Veranix dug out the coins from his pocket and slapped them on the table. The server slid them into his apron and went behind the bar.

Chicken Thalin was quite the surprise. Veranix hadn't had that in several years. The circus traveled all over Druthal, but the closest place it had to call home was the Thalin region in the Archduchy of Sauriya. It was definitely the strongest influence on his mother's cooking.

The server came back over to the table with Veranix's cider.

“You see all that paper outside?” the server asked Veranix.

“I saw it,” Veranix said, quickly adding. “I never understand those.”

“You see something like that, this part of town, you know there's going to be a rumble soon.” The server looked over to the window. “Hope it's not here.”

“Princes and other rats trying to avoid a hammer,” one of the old men coughed out. He pulled out a coin from his pile of winnings and tossed it to the server. “Another beer, boy.”

“What's the hammer?” Veranix asked as innocently as he could manage. No need to appear as anything other than a naively curious Uni kid.

“Trouble from the big boss across 'path.”

“Don't follow, friend,” Veranix said.

“Shut it and play,” the other old man said. He threw down two cards from his hand on the table. “Double treat, beat it.”

“Moon doubled, with three of the Grand,” said the first, showing his cards. He pulled the pot over. Glancing at Veranix he continued, “Ain't nothing, kid. Street trash doin' street trash things. Some troublemaker cuts into the big man's business, and the rats over here all want him to know the troublemaker isn't one of theirs.”

“Big man losing money,” said the second man. “He's got to work double to make it back, and find someone to blame. So he's gonna look across 'path.”

“Why would he do that?” Veranix asked.

“Who else would make a play on his coin?” said the second old man. He threw some more coins into the middle of the table and dealt out more cards to himself. “Blazes, long as I remember Aventil and Dentonhill been scrapping at each other.”

“How it is,” said the first.

Veranix leaned closer to the two old men. “So, he's going to want to sell hard on the streets, too.”

The first old man turned and really looked at Veranix for the first time. “College boy?”

“That's right,” Veranix said.

“You hooch yourself up with anything?” the old man accused.

“No, sir,” Veranix said fiercely. The old man nodded in approval.

“Be smart, college boy. You finish up, you move to the other side of the river. Get your nose out of the mess of this neighborhood.”

The server came over with Veranix's dish. As soon as the scent hit his nostrils, Veranix was a little boy again. Before any show night, his mother would be at the wagon stove, cooking butter, onions, and peppercorns in the clay pot. He would watch her from his bunk while she added wine and mustard and other spices, then finally the chicken, and thin slices of potato. Then it would sit on the stove, slowly simmering while they performed the show. At the end of the night, they'd go back to the wagon and the whole place would smell glorious.

That was the scent.

Veranix took a bite. It was good. Not perfect—too much mustard, not enough pepper—but it was quite good. Almost how his mother would make it.

Almost, but not quite right at all.

Quietly, he kept eating, every bite delicious. Every bite wrong. Every bite driving home the inevitable point that had never crossed his mind before.

He would never eat his mother's Chicken Thalin again.

He didn't care what Colin thought about what it would do on the streets. He didn't care about his marks in history, or what Rellings would do if he was caught out of house after curfew. He didn't care if Kaiana would be angry.

The man who had broken Veranix's mother was making his lush living on the poison he was selling; the poison he had used on her until she couldn't stand on her own, let alone leap and fly like she once did. And that man needed to sell, now more than ever.

Veranix knew where and when. He'd spoil the drop. He'd spoil every drop, and when Fenmere was as broken as Verona Calbert was, when he was begging to die, only then would Veranix finish him.

Tonight he would hit him again.

T
HE CURFEW BELLS
had long since rung when Veranix crept into the carriage house. He had made a good show of being seen in the common area before going to bed, magicking off the window grate and slipping out. Delmin had given him a brief look of disapproval, but said nothing.

A few oil lamps hung over the Spinner Run stable. Kaiana sat on a small wooden crate, calmly munching on an apple. She looked up at Veranix as he approached, her face unreadable.

“Big drop of it tonight, right?” she asked. She took another bite of the apple.

“Right,” Veranix said cautiously. “You already knew.”

“I knew yesterday,” she said glibly. “Shirt off, come on.”

“Wait, what?” Veranix said.

“Shirt. Off.” she said. When he still didn't react, she continued. “You took a knife in your shoulder the other night, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Veranix said. He took off his coat and started unlacing the shirt.

“So let me check the wound and dress it again,” she said. “If you're going to go start something tonight, you'll need that.”

“You aren't going to try and stop me?” He pulled the shirt over his head.

“You've already shown I can't do that,” she said, unwrapping the dressing. The wound was oozing slightly, but the stitches were still holding strong. She poked at them gingerly. “Those won't tear when you shoot?”

“Don't think so,” he said, flexing the arm.

“Still, I should probably do them fresh when you get back,” she said. She started bandaging it back up.

“Not so tight.”

“You need it tight,” she said. “Try to avoid scrapping this time. You can sour the milk without kicking the bull.”

“I plan to,” he said. “I went in angry the other night. I wanted to scrap. I wanted to hurt them.”

“And tonight?” she asked. She finished with the dressing and squatted down in front of him.

“Still angry. But not stupid. In quiet, wreck the drop, slip out,” he said. “Stay low, nothing fancy.”

“Stay out of fish bins as well,” she said, the slightest smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. She pulled the crate over. “Get dressed and go. I'll leave the window unlatched. Wake me up when you get back.” Veranix stayed still as she headed over to her quarters. “What is it?”

“I'm still waiting for the yelling.”

“Veranix,” she said, “I know you're going out no matter what I say. So I can either boot you from here, or I can do what I can to make sure you always come back.” She bit her lip and looked to the ground, avoiding his gaze. “You're out there fighting my fight, too. Just fight it smart.”

“As you wish, Kai,” he said, not hiding his smile. She didn't look back up. She gave a quick nod and went into her quarters. Veranix put his gear on, blew out the lamps, and slipped out into the night.

Oscana Park at night was one of those places that had gotten so dangerous it had become safe again. Ten years prior, anyone crossing through there in the dark was sure to get roughed, robbed, and killed. This was known, this was accepted, so no one who had anything worth being killed over went through there. Nowadays, the only people to be found there were those who had nothing, whose lives were worth almost nothing, even to themselves. The most pathetic, desperate, and destitute congregated in the park, forming tiny communities among the half-dead, dried out trees and weed-choked scrub.

That Oscana Park had at one time been a beautiful place was almost a legend in Maradaine. It was something people often said, but it had been over a century since it had been true; no living memory of its former glory existed. Only the statues remained.

There were several statues throughout the park, marble masterpieces carved centuries ago, commemorating Druth heroes from the Rebellion. Most were thoroughly vandalized: faces broken, missing limbs, or even shattered. The statue of Niyol Carm—Veranix couldn't remember what he did in the Rebellion—was oddly intact. It was hidden away in a small enclave under a rock wall, with a fair amount of trees around it. In the dark of night, it was nearly impossible to see it, even though Veranix knew he was right near it.

Perfect place for an illegal exchange,
he thought. He crept toward the statue with meticulous care. The ground was littered with fallen branches and twigs, which would snap and crunch at the slightest provocation. Veranix could hear someone breathing by the statue. At least one of his targets was here. The last thing he wanted was to make his presence known.

There was a crunch a few yards behind him.

Every muscle in Veranix's body tensed. Slowly, he pulled out his bow and drew an arrow.

Another crunch.

The person at the statue stopped breathing. Veranix could make out a shadow, now holding very still next to the statue. Another shadow came through the trees, approaching cautiously, but not making any effort to conceal himself. This person was carrying something large.

“Pen?” the figure by the statue whispered. In the still of the dark night, every little sound was a ringing bell to Veranix.

“Here,” said the approaching man. He moved closer, emerging from the thicket of trees. He was an immensely large man. Possibly the tallest, most musclebound man Veranix had ever seen—and that included Lomo the Lifter from the circus.

“You got the stuff?” the other one said.

“Right here,” Pen said, holding up the thing he was carrying.

That was all Veranix needed to hear. He fired the arrow at Pen, and as soon as it was loosed, he grabbed the rope at his belt. He heard the arrow strike, and a grunt of pain from the man. He willed the rope to leap out and wrap around the thing in Pen's hand. In a moment, he could sense that it had a solid grip; he yanked the rope to bring it to him.

It didn't move.

That was surprising.

The large figure grabbed the rope from his end, and pulled. It happened too fast for Veranix to realize what was happening, too fast to react. He was torn from the ground and flew across the air, hurtling at the statue. The man over there jumped up. Veranix heard the grinding swipe of metal blades being pulled out of their sheathes.

He had only a moment to act, more out of instinct than thought. He drew in a surge of magic, and transformed it into a blast of pure light. The man at the statue cried out and turned his head away. Veranix flipped himself around so his foot connected with the man's head.

The man held his ground despite the blow. He swiped up with a blade, but Veranix was already past him, still out of control from being thrown. He crashed into the rock wall.

Pen was charging in. Veranix was still holding on to the rope, and he sent it wrapping around Pen's legs. He got tangled up, tripping over the rope. The momentum of his charge kept him going, right at Veranix. His massive fist came swinging forward. Veranix barely dodged out of the way.

Veranix jumped up as hard as he could, landing on Pen's shoulder for a second before bounding away from the statue. The other man was on top of him before he was able to get another step away. He had knives in both his hands, slashing furiously at Veranix. Veranix ignored the pain from the cuts, and rolled with the man's tackle. He kept his grip on the rope and willed it around the man's body, constricting like a snake. The knives dropped.

Pen was turned back around. Veranix flung the other man at him and ran. Pen caught the other man, his enormous arms almost gentle in how he handled him.

“Cole? You all right?” he asked. Veranix was already crashing through the trees, the rope coiling back up in his hands as he ran.

“Get him!” Cole shouted. Pen put Cole down and ran after Veranix. He pounded through the brush like a mad bull.

Fear forced bile up from Veranix's stomach. He was running as fast as he could, too panicked to focus on anything but getting away. He cleared the patch of trees, racing into open field, out in the scarlet moonlight. Pen was right behind him.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he caught himself muttering. He couldn't run fast enough, out in the open, to get away. Those huge hands were going to grab him, and when they did, they would tear him to pieces. He had to get out of their reach.

The magic flowed through him, triggered by survival instinct. Desperate to get away, he channeled the magic out beneath him, and launched straight up into the air.

Fear left him as he rocketed up, as if it shot out of his body with the magic of the jump. As his ascent slowed, he looked back down to the ground. He could understand what he was up against, assess it with a clear head. Pen stood in the clearing, staring up at Veranix. He really was a ridiculously large man. Cole came out of the copse of trees, a tiny ball of hair next to Pen, knives in his hands, more knives sheathed in the belts that crossed his chest.

“The Thorn's a bird now,” Cole said.

“He'll come down,” Pen said.

Veranix realized Pen was right. He reached the peak of his jump, and he could feel he was about to drop, and land right in their midst.

He still had his bow in one hand, and the rope in the other. The rope had coiled itself when he ran. He clipped it onto his belt and drew out an arrow. Just as his upward momentum ended, he pulled back the arrow and fired it at Pen. He shot another as he started to fall.

Cole threw his knives, knocking the arrows off course. Veranix was astounded by his accuracy.

“Sam! Get him!” Cole yelled.

Veranix plummeted. He looked up, and saw a third man on top of the rock outcropping above the statue. He was lankier than the other two, and he was carrying a large crossbow. He fired.

With controlled magic, Veranix slowed his descent, falling like a feather instead of a stone. The man with the crossbow hadn't anticipated the sudden shift in acceleration; he missed. Veranix shot at Pen and Cole. Cole blocked the arrows again, and followed that with two more knives at Veranix.

Veranix realized his slow descent now made him an easy target. He willed the cloak to change around him, becoming a blur in the dark, starry sky.

Another arrow whizzed past him, far closer than he would have liked.

“Don't see him,” Cole said.

“He's still there,” Pen said. “Keep throwing.” Cole drew out another knife.

Veranix had to get out of the air. He slung the bow over his shoulder and took his staff in one hand. He grabbed the rope, and as fast as he could, lashed it out toward the top of the rock wall, where he spotted a birch tree.

“There!” Pen shouted. Cole threw the knife.

Like lightning, the rope coiled around the birch tree. Veranix reeled himself in, the knife hurling through the space where he had just been. Veranix flew toward Sam—the man with the crossbow—and swung with his staff as hard as he could with one arm. Sam rolled away at the last moment, and Veranix only managed a glancing blow.

Veranix didn't even properly get his feet on the ground. Sam had spun around to plant a heavy kick in Veranix's chest. Veranix was knocked back, his hands reflexively opening with the blow.

He let go of the rope and the staff.

Veranix tried to grab the rope again, but Sam was already up in front of him, leveling his crossbow square at Veranix's heart. Before he could fire, Veranix flipped over backward. He kicked the crossbow out of Sam's hands, sending the bolt wildly up toward the sky.

Veranix didn't land right, closer to the edge than he realized. His hands slipped on the loose rubble at the top of the rock wall, and he fell over the brink. He reacted only quickly enough to push away and avoid cracking his skull on the edge. He flipped over again and righted himself, landing on his feet just behind the statue. His knees and ankles screamed when he landed, but he bit back any sound from his throat.

“He's dropped back down!” Sam called. “You see him?”

Veranix scrambled up against the rock wall, willing the cloak to surround him in an image of the stone. He made a silent prayer to every saint he could think of to keep him unseen.