16
The aftermath of their escape passed in a blur.
They abandoned the phaeton in the depths of the industrial district and scoured it clean of traces.
With that, they cut through the silver lining to a safe house, where they burned their clothes and tools to ash.
Two hours later, they stepped back into the world in disguises fit for Arcadium Hall.
Lysander had emerged from his first bath in three years a different man—a handsome Carinth, his eyes gray and his hair dyed gold.
The beautifying potions of Lumenia Street had smoothed away his crow’s-feet and restored the color to his skin, while a hundred lyrin worth of healing charms had begun to undo the deeper damage.
With his rags exchanged for plum silk swallowtails, he was leagues from the sorry criminal who’d staggered out of Haideum.
Then—Myria hadn’t been able to resist it—she’d taken them to the Claritas Majestus, her favorite hotel in all Carintheum. Aurelias could sleep; for the first time in a long, long while, the crew had something to celebrate.
In their private suite, they lost themselves in the best meal Myria had tasted in years.
Her spirit warmed impossibly as they gathered in the candlelit cheer.
For three years, she’d schemed to her reflection, sharpened the blades of her mind in silence.
Now, there were shields at her back and comrades at her side.
The feel of it threw oil onto the fire that had been building steadily inside her since she’d first stepped out of jail.
The flames broke their boundaries and burned away the dark.
Their celebrations roared into the small hours. That night, though, there was no addling their wits with wine. Myria poured them each one shallow measure, then raised her glass in a toast to Hadria. The sheen across Lysander’s eyes could have been nothing but the candlelight.
And so it began. There was no trifling dinner table chatter that night. They had something sweeter on the menu.
Revenge.
Myria laid out the plan—a tapestry three years in the weaving, ready to see the light of day at last. Lysander listened with a surgeon’s care, interjecting with sparse clarifying questions.
His voice came weaker now that the incandaeum was wearing off.
Nonetheless, at the end of it, he nodded with no hint of doubt.
“You sure about this, mate?” asked Cassia. “Couldn’t blame you if you wanted to scarper to Iseus and never look back.”
Myria kept her expression under careful regulation. She’d never mentioned what she’d seen that night in the Elysius Vault. Truth be told, Lysander had more reason to join her than any of them.
“I’ll own, it’s an appealing thought,” he said. “After three years in tenebris aeterna at that man’s instigation, though, I find Myria’s notion more pleasing yet.”
“Still don’t trust these poncy outsiders,” Leo muttered, eyeing him up sidelong. Lysander graciously inclined his head.
“Speaking of fleeing the empire, I’m surprised to find you still haunting the metropolis,” he said. “I’d have thought Vixius would’ve taken your silverwalking powers.”
“He didn’t,” Leo said shortly, his expression clouding over.
“Evidently. So what induced you to—”
“A third of the haul,” he said, then flashed Lysander another look of half-feigned resentment. “Make that a quarter.”
“Best I start making myself useful, in that case,” said Lysander. “Cassia, your arcana. Shall I examine it?”
“Sure you ought to do it when you’re off your nut on incandaeum?” Cass asked. Myria hid a grin. Cutting delicately at his food in a fine hotel, dressed every inch the gentleman, Lysander had a rather tame interpretation of being off his nut.
“I gather half the century’s great art was born under similar conditions,” he said. Cassia shrugged, then grinned and rose.
Ten minutes later, Lysander stood before the unlit hearth, putting the finishing touches on his repairs.
The glimmering black tracery of Cassia’s arcanic faculties hung in the air between them.
With delicate motions of a paintbrush and needle, he sealed the cracks and spun together the split threads of her powers.
At last, he lowered his hands, and the light sank back into Cassia’s body.
“There. Scarcely as good as new, but your mercuria should hold together,” he said. “Don’t use it for more than twenty minutes at a time, and don’t spin from your imagination. You’ll have to draw off subjects.”
“It’s better already, mate. I can feel it,” she said, clapping him on the arm. “Knew we saved you for a reason.”
“Sterling work, old boy,” said Myria, then beckoned to Cassia. “Now, we’d best evict our tenant.”
“Damn. I’d forgotten about him,” Leo said, fishing into his pocket. “I’ll find some mementori tools. Can’t risk taking him to a practitioner.”
“Off-the-shelf kit should do. It’s not a complex job.”
“This sounds charmingly violent,” said Lysander. “Enlighten a chap?”
“They set a prefecture guard on me when I left Halcyon,” Myria replied. “He followed me this morning, so I lured him into the silver lining.”
“And treated him to a quick course of assault and battery,” Leo added. “We left him locked up in an old harvesters’ shop.”
“I see. Best not leave him there for too long. The silver lining can have ill effects on the uninitiated.”
“Indeed,” said Myria, coming to her feet. “Cass, Leo?”
Her friends each stole a few last forkfuls, then left the table with reluctant backward glances. Leo drew his feather and began to cut the air.
“Don’t drink all the wine while we’re gone,” he added with a warning look to Lysander. “We’ll be back in five minutes.”
Something’s wrong.
Myria stepped out of the gateway, down into the dark of the industrial district. The rain had stopped, but the waters had carried a sheet of soot and alchemical runoff down the streets. Etched in the glimmering muck were two sets of footprints.
It should’ve been an unremarkable sight, but she knew how people walked those streets.
They scurried, eyes down, keeping to the edges—short, scuffing paces, leaving the prints of worn-out shoes.
These were powerful strides right down the center of the road, driving tough new tread-marks into the mud.
Leo felt the air and stopped dead. “I don’t understand. I can’t feel the gateway to the workshop,” he said under his breath.
Myria stood stock-still, listening with all her might. She could hear the water gushing through the sewer, but no signs of life. Her instincts kicked in hard.
“Retreat,” she said at once. “Assume we’re being followed.”
Leo slashed a rough square in the air. He stepped into it, pulling Cassia with him. Myria hurried after them, looking over her shoulder as she went. Her skin prickled with the feel of arcana. Perhaps it was just the manufactories—
“Myria!”
The warning came too late. Something cold and fast speared right into her chest. It threw her against the alley wall, then broke like a wave and burst into glimmering spray. Arcanic silver filled her head.
Damn.
She snatched a breath and looked each way. Ten feet to her right, her friends were frozen in the gateway. At the mouth of the alley stood a figure dark as death.
“Close the door!” she shouted.
There was loyalty among thieves, but thank the Pantheon, there was also obedience. Leo threw the gateway shut, and the next curse seared through empty air. The light burst like a silver firework on the wall. Beneath the shelter of the blaze, Myria took to the wind.
She dashed for the end of the alley and thrust herself into a foot-wide gap between two buildings. She broke free on the other side ten seconds later, black with soot, heart thundering in her head.
Footsteps rang in the night behind her, then scuffled to a stop. She stole a look over her shoulder and saw a familiar silhouette beyond the narrow gap.
Aurelias.
He was too broad in the shoulder to follow her down—but then, something swift and bright hissed by him. It cut down the alleyway on silver wings and arrowed straight toward her.
Adrenaline shocked through her blood. She flew down the street, then swung hard left through an open door. The curse blazed past and shot on straight ahead.
The darkness of a factory swallowed her. Myria bolted between the great conveyor belts across the floor. In the echo of the concrete cavern, though, she heard the running footsteps once again. Aurelias was already catching up.
She burst out through the western door and fled down the next street, thinking wildly. She was fast, but he was faster, and he didn’t have a lady’s wardrobe to contend with.
Then the cobbles turned to a slate roof, and she realized where she was.
Thank the Low Gods for a youth spent running those streets.
Just ahead lay the place they called Gordian’s Gap, for the first splitwit to die trying to jump it.
The roof descended in a deceptive slope, hiding the chasm between it and the opposite terrace.
She sped toward the edge, eyes raking the darkness for the wooden board that bridged the six-yard gap.
There.
Myria dashed across the narrow plank, then kicked it away with forty feet to spare. She stole a grin as Aurelias spied the gap and faltered. Got him. She turned and ran, heading for the ladder down the far side. Even he wasn’t daft enough to—
Clang!
Her heart leapt into her skull as an impact rattled the slates.
Damn. He is. She sped to a sprint across the roof.
She was three feet from the ladder when he struck her like a phaeton. The breath punched out of her. The world lurched upward. She rolled and slid wildly toward the edge of the roof.
Then, a hand seized hers and halted her six inches from the fall. She gasped in air, too stunned to whip her arm away. As she lay there, winded, the cool touch of a confining charm circled her wrist.
Myria’s stomach began to sink, and didn’t stop when it hit the sewers. She closed her eyes and slowly caught her breath.