6 #2
“They can’t. They’re frauds,” he interrupted, starting off. The mementori dropped the flourishes and turned a filthy look on him.
“You impugn my services? My powers?” He drew himself up and flexed his fingers, waking a ripple of cracks and arcanic flashes from his hands. “Perhaps you’d like to forget the last five years of your life.”
It occurred to Felix too late that it’d been all very well picking fights back when he’d been able to turn a man to ash with his mind—less so when he’d come unarmed with an innocent under his charge. Rogues or not, the mementori were a dangerous breed.
Still, he’d faced far worse. Felix raised his hands, and let his sleeves fall back just far enough to show that he wore no gauntlets. As he moved, the light glanced off his phoenix pin and regimental crest.
“Perhaps you’d rather I forgot that you just threatened me,” he said.
He felt a rascal to admit it, but watching the mementori turn white as curdled milk was a wonderful thing.
A man who walked Carysium Street without gauntlets was either a monumental splitwit, or powerful enough to wield arcana freehand.
When he wore a regimental crest and personal arcanic sigil, a prudent attacker banked on the latter.
The mementori scurried back inside without another word.
Felix took back Miss Rosara’s arm and carried on down the street. She gave a nervous laugh.
“Pardon me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to provoke a fight. Could he not help?”
“I wouldn’t trust him to. The proper practitioners can work wonders, but this lot . . . half of them buy from the grayside.”
“Buy from them? What do you mean?”
“Most of the memories in those windows would’ve been stolen at dagger point,” he said, amusement fading.
“They sift out all the people and places till there’s just the feeling left.
They sell the good ones for pleasure, the bad ones for curses.
The purest sell the best.” He paused. “The memories of children.”
Miss Rosara opened her mouth, then seemed to swallow her reply.
“Come along,” she said instead. “The sooner we leave this place, the better.”
Regrettably, Miss Rosara’s philosophy of moths and flames proved accurate. Eyes began to follow Felix the moment they reached the streets they sought. Voices purred from the shadows, and crimson-gloved hands trailed suddenly across his arms. He shook them off like spiders and hurried on.
The scarlet traders—the Carysium Street roses—whatever the euphemism, he’d found their den.
Felix kept his face blank and his eyes fixed dead ahead as Miss Rosara began to try the houses, one by one.
While the lady made her quiet inquiries, he stood in the farthest corner, retrieved his book and reread it with his nose almost to the page.
Then, at the fifth establishment, she came discreetly to his side.
“I think I’ve found the right place,” she said under her breath. “Pardon me. I could be some time in negotiations. If you’d rather wait outside . . .”
“Will you be safe?” he asked, hesitating, despite the call of every instinct to bolt for the fresh air.
“I expect so. The ladies outnumber the men quite considerably. I undertake not to be four hours this time.”
“If you need me . . .”
“I’ll scream.”
“Capital.”
He slipped out, cutting down the side of the building and into the alleyway behind. There, he leaned against the wall, breathing the smoky air and watching the dark for danger.
Not quite how the day was meant to go, he thought. Still . . . saved a lady from a phaeton. Could be worse.
For several minutes, he didn’t see another soul. Little surprise, he supposed, given the diversions available elsewhere.
Then something lit the edge of his senses like a signal fire on a foggy night. A griffin flared its wings in his mind’s eye. He came abruptly upright as a figure swept around the corner—and there, he set eyes on the last person he’d expected to see.
Prima Gloriana strode down the street in full uniform, moving like a woman who cared little who saw her; yet when she set eyes on him, she pulled up in alarm. A lurch of panic hit him. Goodness knew what she’d think to find him on that street.
But then, a smile erased the worry in her face. Felix shook himself and offered her a bow.
“Aurelias,” she said warmly, striding to meet him. “Thought I caught a glint of the old gold. On duty?”
“Yes, ma’am, believe it or not,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “My thanks for not assuming . . .” He gestured to the street behind, and the centurion laughed.
“I know you, Felix Aurelias,” she said, and a flame of gratitude lit in his heart. Then she raised an eyebrow and nodded to the building. “And the door’s on the other side.”
“I’m honored by your faith in me, ma’am,” he said wryly. “What brings you here?”
“Trying to track down the graysiders,” said Gloriana, tapping her folded gloves against her palm. “Favor for my brother. He thought a few military arcani might find something the prefecture couldn’t.”
“Your brother, ma’am?”
“The Magister-General.”
“Of course. Praetor Valorus.” That was it—little wonder the centurion couldn’t stand Praetor Evander, if he was vying for her brother’s office. “Things must be worse than I’d heard, if they’re prevailing on you.”
“He’s been trying to keep it quiet,” said Gloriana, her expression turning grim. “Not least with the election on its way. Public confidence took a beating with the Elysius robbery, and Evander’s been flinging mud ever since. Truth is, though, the grayside’s been getting bolder for years.”
Felix nodded slowly. His work in the ceremonial precinct put him miles from grayside crime, but he still heard the mutterings in the office.
The devils worked mischief all over the city, always vanishing without a trace before the prefecture arrived.
Carysium Street was their richest hunting ground.
“But you’ve found nothing?” he asked.
“Not a single hideout. Just some strange arcanic draining. The fabric around here’s thinner than it should be.”
“It mightn’t mean anything,” he said. “Most of these buildings run on back-alley-grade spells. I suspect they’re only poaching.”
He instinctively raised his hands to feel the arcanic weave. Then, remembering himself, he let them fall. The silent sympathy in Gloriana’s countenance forced the knife a little deeper, before a quizzical look replaced it.
“Poaching?”
“Leaching power from the arcanic fabric of the area,” he said. “It’s cheaper than buying from the grid. Pardon. Prefecture slang.”
“Hmm. Look who’s gone native,” she answered with a teasing smile. “Glad to see you, all the same.”
“Likewise, ma’am,” he said. Her gaze warmed, and she reached out and clasped him by the elbow. His heart steadied at her touch. Her presence still surrounded him like armor—an armor he needed all the more, now that he had none of his own.
“Out of interest, though, what brought you down here?” she added, a sliver of concern returning to her eyes.
“Guarding a dominius penitent. She’s looking for a wayward acquaintance,” he said. He didn’t miss the relief in Gloriana’s countenance, and cocked his head. She let out a short breath at the unspoken question.
“Forgive me. I’m . . . aware that there’s a black trade in arcanic faculties, down this way. The harvesters, you see.”
His gut twisted. He’d heard the rumors. They said there were vile men who snatched children off the streets, drained their arcana, cut out their faculties for sale and left the corpses to dissolve in alchemical waste. For a moment, his own fate didn’t seem so hard.
“Ah,” he murmured. “No, ma’am. I’d not defy the law to try and fix myself.”
“You’re not broken, Aurelias,” she said quietly. “Don’t ever believe that. And if you find yourself in need of help, you’ll have it.”
The centurion set a hand on his shoulder, and the touch of her arcana trembled in that half-dead part of him. His own power flickered in response. The phoenix sprang up from the depths, racing from its golden wellspring to join her.
Then her hand fell, and the firebird faded into ash. Something closed tight about his throat.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, voice barely sounding.
She turned and was gone as fast as a daydream. Felix leaned back against the wall, fighting for control. Even so, there was a bittersweet warmth amid the pain. Seeing the centurion felt, in its own curious way, like coming home.