Chapter 27 Daggers in the Dark
Rolan waited until midnight, his daggers hidden under his pillow.
The advantage of sleeping on a pallet in the kitchen was that he didn’t have to sneak past Evaine’s and Anaya’s bedrooms upstairs on his way out.
Evaine kept the doors and windows locked at night, but locks were rarely a problem for Rolan.
Outside, the streets were bright, as they always were.
He ducked behind a cart as a lamplighter went past, checking oil levels in the lamps.
But overhead, the sky was as black as ink, the stars washed out by the city’s glow.
The air felt strange, too still and too thin, as if the city were holding its breath.
Rolan stole through the alleyways, knives ready, senses on alert. This was not much different from his old habits of prowling the city late at night, only then he’d been looking for scraps to eat and small valuables to pocket and take back to his father.
Now he was doing the unthinkable. If Luc found out, he’d be livid. But Luc wouldn’t find out. He’d dumped Rolan, possibly for good. This was his fault, really. He should have taken back his knives. He shouldn’t have sent Rolan away.
Lamps burned on every corner, but Rolan knew a few spots around the city, usually in the poorest neighborhoods, where there were small gaps in the pools of light. Faint slivers of shadow that most people did not notice, dark corners where secrets could grow legs.
It was in one such place he found the first Cryptic.
In his weeks with Luc, the Arcanist had taught him the signs to watch out for: scrabbling legs, clacking mandibles, gouges on stone or wood where curving claws left their mark.
This Cryptic announced itself with a chitter of teeth. Rolan went stiff the moment he heard it, his grip on his knife hilts tightening.
He crouched under the awning of a candle shop that had been closed for years, its dusty windows still featuring rows of half-melted wax blobs.
Nobody was around. Even in daylight, this street was usually empty, its shops shuttered due to regular flooding from the river.
Around the corner was a small, triangular nook where the building didn’t quite match up with the next, creating a dark cranny where no lamplight could reach.
The chittering sound was coming from in there.
Rolan drew a few deep breaths, steeling himself. He’d never challenged a Cryptic on his own. He caught himself longing for Luc’s firm, whispered instructions in his ear, the confidence that came from knowing that if he made a mistake, the Arcanist would be there to cover for him.
“Stupid old man,” Rolan muttered. “I don’t need you, anyway.”
With a snarl, Rolan threw himself around the corner, knives high.
And the Cryptic leaped out of the shadows with a shriek.
Rolan caught it on one blade, scoring its belly, but the blow wasn’t nearly enough to stop the monster.
It was long and lithe, like a scaled weasel, with a head like a centipede’s.
Its pincers chittered as it scrabbled around him, its head no higher than his ankles.
A Rank One, then, according to the size charts in the Arcane Histories.
Just a few days old, its secret very recent.
Its killer instinct wasn’t yet stronger than its survival one, and it would make its way to the forest to grow bigger.
But it would hurt anyone unlucky enough to be in its path on the way out.
Rolan would make sure this one didn’t hurt anybody.
But the smallest ones were the quickest, darting from place to place with such speed, it was nearly impossible to track. He had to wait until it attacked to get in a good strike.
“Find the center,” he whispered to himself, sweat trailing down the back of his neck. “Crack the core.”
The thing leaped again.
He was ready this time, slashing laterally. One of its four claws clattered to the ground then dissipated into smoke, but the others scraped over Rolan’s hip, shredding his shirt and drawing blood. Pain flared through him, and he stumbled.
“Not good enough,” Rolan groaned through his teeth. He didn’t know whether he was speaking to the Cryptic or himself.
Blood ran down Rolan’s side and leg. He had a jar of truth salve in his pocket, slyly plucked from Evaine’s cabinets, but it wouldn’t do him any good until he’d dealt with the Cryptic.
Frustrated, his side in agony, Rolan retreated a few steps. His breath came sharp and fast, and he resisted the urge to press a hand to the wound. The blood would only make his grip slick, and he couldn’t afford to drop his knife at the crucial moment.
The Cryptic didn’t give him much time to catch his breath. It came again, scrabbling in a sinuous pattern, then springing for Rolan’s stomach.
With a shout, he spun and kicked, repeating the movement Luc had made him practice a thousand times until his body ached and he couldn’t lift his feet.
But all that practice paid off.
His boot connected with the Cryptic’s head, sending it spinning to slam against the wall across the street. It was dazed only for a moment, and Rolan used the opportunity to rush in and drive his knife through the monster’s aleth. It got in one last bite though, snipping the tip off his left pinky.
With a roar of pain, Rolan held on to his dagger, driving it home. His vision blurred and his head swam, but he had to see it through. Had to hang on.
With a final chitter, the Cryptic lay still. Then its body turned to smoke, and a single mandible fell to the ground, glowing faintly blue.
“Gotcha,” Rolan gasped.
Hands shaking, he put the mandible into his pocket, then took out the truth salve.
Legs sprawled and back resting against the wall, he smeared the paste onto his side and the tip of his finger.
He knew he was barely hanging on to consciousness, and that as soon as he let himself relax even a little, he’d pass out.
So he gritted his teeth and climbed to his feet, dragging himself along the wall.
He pressed his hand to the cuts on his hip, staunching the blood with the ribboned remains of his shirt.
Tearing one strip off, he wrapped it around his shortened pinky.
At least the Cryptic hadn’t taken it off at the knuckle.
That would make handling his knives a bit trickier.
“Right,” he gasped. “Maybe that was a little harder than I’d expected.” He knew the words would never reach Luc’s ears, but he said them anyway. “I did it, old man! All on my own!”
The only evidence of his fierce battle was a splatter of blood along the street, but he knew what this part of the city was like. A little blood would be overlooked.
When he reached the alley behind Evaine’s apothecary, he used his knife to pry a brick out of the wall.
There was a cavity behind it, known only to him and Anaya.
When she’d first taken up her apprenticeship, she’d leave packets of food for him in there.
He’d paid for it with little trinkets he picked up—rings, paints, ribbons—until she told him she could no longer accept stolen goods. She was an upstanding citizen now.
There was still a pack of bread inside, so old it was mostly mold now. He’d stubbornly stopped taking the food when she’d stopped taking his gifts.
Tossing the bread out, he tucked the relic inside, then hesitated. The mandible glowed still, the blue aura a temptation that sang to him. All he had to do was smash it, and the power inside would alleviate his pain, grant him strength, banish his exhaustion…
“No,” Rolan murmured, shoving the brick back into place.
He wondered a little at his own decision.
Just a few weeks ago, turning down a rush of power like that—however brief—would have seemed the height of stupidity.
He knew this was Luc’s influence over him, changing him from the inside.
Making him worry about silly things like honor and integrity and all that.
He’d never bothered himself with such ideas before.
The world didn’t have honor and integrity, so why should he?
It was like trying to grow wings to survive underwater.
“I’m such an idiot,” he groaned.
But he left the brick in place.