11. ELEVEN
ELEVEN
NIKLAUS
Location: Korshuva District, Seraphinden
When tropical winter set into Seraphinden and the afternoons promised a misting of rain, the crowd at the Muddy Horse couldn’t be beat.
Latouda sat in her usual spot. Low light from the red Aetech lamp was reflected on her bronze skin, forming a halo of burgundy around her turban. She was a thing art should envy.
Niklaus pulled up a stool beside her, eliciting a side-eye, a sly smile, and a slow pull from her drink. Only then did she free her hands to signal.
She pushed the metal tin along the countertop toward him.
He pocketed it. Fates, but she was a blessing—he’d nearly run out. Knew him better than he knew himself.
Niklaus had taught her to read and signal, against the ordinance, following the accident that took her hearing. She was much better at signaling than him now, and he usually preferred to let her read his lips than stumble through the gestures. “You are always too good to me.”
Niklaus wrapped an arm around her and planted a kiss at her hairline. Claynard was mopping down the counter at the far end of the bar. He caught Niklaus’s eye and tilted his head to the side.
Niklaus wove through the other patrons to order a round.
“She said she’s already on your tab.” Claynard threw a thumb at Latouda.
“Of course she is.”
“And she got drinks for all her buddies last hour.”
“Of course she did.”
Claynard forced air from his nostrils. “Careful to be too good to your friends, eah? You’ll find it harder to keep straight who they are.”
“Nonsense. Everyone’s always been on my tab.”
“Suit yourself.”
Drinks were poured, and Niklaus made his way back to Latouda to set them on the bar in front of her.
he told her.
She gasped, seizing the paper the moment he pulled it from his breast pocket.
Niklaus sat on his hands to prevent himself from interjecting as Latouda read his article. Jironesh, oligarch and chairman of Aetech’s board, had been found dead in his home the week before. Murdered. The Shadewalker’s mark had been left in charcoal beside his corpse.
It was the buzz of the Skywalk, as homicide tended to be, especially as one hadn’t occurred in the upper city in years.
But neither the coroner nor city officials had reported further on it—which was worth Niklaus’s report in its own right.
Jironesh’s secrets and scandals had been copious.
It might have proven more difficult to investigate what wouldn’t make someone want to leave call signs over his corpse.
The article might have been one of Niklaus’s best pieces.
Latouda folded the paper, and her eyes settled on his lips.
“What do you think?” he asked.
His brows snapped together.
Latouda winced. She shrugged. Her eyes sparkled.
He suppressed an undignified chortle.
Latouda crossed her arms.
She pushed his stool away with her foot.
He leaned back in.
Latouda took his hand and placed it over his pocket.
Year: 749 Post Cataclysm: Present Day
Location: Jiradesh Desert
In Niklaus’s experience, there were only three degrees of separation between a man and a satisfactory drug dealer.
In a tent not far off the merchants’ row, the dealer in question fit the standard: greasy hair, squinting eyes, pallid complexion, and a body too long and thin to be healthy.
He slipped a small, cinched bag through the flap of the tent and into Niklaus’s hands.
“Cheers, eah?” Niklaus said.
The man shut the flap without response.
Need was a primal, desperate thing. Niklaus couldn’t wait for the space of a blink it would have taken to break a tab into thirds before pressing a whole one against his tongue. He cinched the bag tight and stuffed it into his pocket.
Wind sifted the sand at his feet, and Niklaus’s mind sifted the thoughts he tried to keep it from.
Latouda followed him like the clouds followed the breeze.
This was what she had wanted—to create his dependence.
To ease his spiraling self-doubt, she’d said.
To widen his creative veins, she’d said.
To turn him against his higher mind, she hadn’t said. To make him her pawn. Hers.
He was still hers. And now, he would probably die hers.
Niklaus looked behind him. The merchants’ quarter of the encampment was especially crowded tonight; the rally had kept many up past highmoon when they might have otherwise found their tents.
Crowds were good. The more people there were, the less people tended to see.
Nobody would notice how desperate he was.
How animalistic. How far against the good human nature he’d proclaimed “did, in fact, exist” he’d acted.
Except the mute.
An unmoving pillar among those passing shadows, the man watched him, blatantly and without the grace to look away when Niklaus turned to face him. He knew, now, the extent of their codependence. Perhaps he had all along. Dex was beside him, oblivious, running his mouth about the matches.
As Niklaus made his way back into the main merchants’ row, the duo fell into step behind him. He stopped at the closest tailor and purchased the largest tunic and sirwal they had to offer.
“Here.” He thrust the clothing into the mute’s hands. “No need to thank me. I’m doing everyone a favor.”
“It’s coming. Consider this a bonus.”
On second thought, a ‘thank-you’ might have been nice.
“When I swing through the storage wagons on my way back tonight.” Niklaus had since had misgivings about the whole ordeal.
Should it be discovered, giving a restricted man access to Aetech’s defensive plates would have legal ramifications when they returned to Seraphinden.
Not a question.
Niklaus raised a finger. “No. I’m going to celebrate.
” He was in no mind to miss the present opportunity to seek information.
A crowded merchant quarter was an ideal cover for asking questions.
And now that he was beginning to feel human again—better, even—the idea of turning in for sleep was far beyond him.
Not to celebrate, but chaperone.
“Suit yourself.”
Dozens of vendors peddled every commodity a man could spend his meager stipend on.
Niklaus tested the waters of purchasing items he’d been restricted from—paper and quill.
Recruitment paperwork was required for any purchase; he was refused.
A forgery might have been possible, but for one problem: the Red Wing issued papers in red ink.
Red ink was contraband, outside of official circles.
If someone had it here, it would be at least as expensive as the moss.
As Niklaus made his way through the merchants’ row, testing leniencies, he chatted up each vendor. Asked how they’d come into the recruitment. About their homes. About their businesses.
None had served more than two recruitments.
It was as contrived as Chaos could make a situation—which was to say that it was absolutely contrived.
These men were not nationalists; they were Thyatira’s.
Niklaus didn’t let his swelling tension show as he went about his errands, whistling and greeting anyone who laid eyes on him.
The mute and the boy dragged their feet behind him all the while.
A pavilion had been staged beside a dozen barrels with taps set into their bellies.
A dozen more empty barrels had been set in the sands beneath it, impromptu tables.
This was a place Niklaus could slip into like a salmon into fast water.
As he did, the effects of the moss tab heightened.
The world eased into placing one foot in front of another. Talking to one person, then the next.
Now that he was here, not scrubbing dishes, it all felt possible: exposing Thyatira. He might be a soldier to his vices. He might be a coward. But once he held on to an idea, he wouldn’t let go for anything. He would become the single problem that Thyatira wouldn’t be able to solve.