Vaster Golt rested the back of his head against the cell wall and idly traced a pattern on the floor with his fingertip. Two diamond-like shapes intertwining in a complex knot, a symbol that a skilled Scribe lacking in morals might use if they wanted to blow the door off a vault or cause a quake strong enough to bring the ceiling down.
Of course, since his finger scarcely left an imprint on the dirt, there was no danger of that in here. He had to offer some credit to Nizwel’s wardens for avoiding at least one basic error when they’d brought him in.
They’d made plenty of others since, from gaps in their patrols to lapses of attention while they delivered the slop that passed for meals. The rusted metal door had enough gaps at the sides that anyone might have passed him a lockpick or even unhinged the door entirely with a good shove. Shoddy work all around, but no less than he’d expect from Nizwel’s law enforcement.
He might have walked out a half-dozen times without exerting much effort, but he had answers to gain before he made his grand escape. Or so he’d told Vanfeld when his second-in-command had taken it upon himself to steal a warden’s uniform and pay him a visit.
Vaster’s hand paused as a thrumming sensation ran across his skin, travelling up his fingertips and settling somewhere at the nape of his neck. His gaze went to the faint lines he’d traced on the floor, but they held no power to speak of. Rather, the source of the vibration came from somewhere to the northwest of his cell.
The head warden’s office? That couldn’t be right.
He straightened his back against the wall as the sound of heavy footsteps rang through the corridor, mingling with jeers from the other cells. The head warden ignored the prisoners’ taunts and halted outside Vaster’s cell. His craggy face was one with which Vaster had become familiar, crinkled like old parchment and topped with a balding patch amid thinning grey curls that had been as fair as Vaster’s own when they’d first become acquainted a decade prior. A key dangled between two pale fingers.
Vaster offered him a smile. “Head Warden Medrit. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
A soft grunt. “The same, I regret, cannot be said for yourself.”
“I’m sure I’m better company than old Sazgard. I heard he’s contracted another unfortunate disease. Caught from one of Gelda’s girls, was it?”
“How—?” The head warden cut his question off; wisely, Vaster thought. Thanks to his spies, he was familiar with the habits of all the city’s head wardens and a fair few of their officers, too. He had more than enough sordid details to bribe his way to freedom—once he had the answers he needed.
The door would have clicked open had Vaster not picked the lock himself on the first day, more for amusement than anything else. Noticing, the head warden’s lips began to shape the word how again and then compressed into a scowl.
“Come on.” He waved a pair of handcuffs. “Out with you.”
“Oh, am I being interrogated again?” Vaster held out his hands. “I do look forward to our conversations.”
Head Warden Medrit muttered something that sounded an awful lot like I look forward to seeing you at the gallows and snapped the cuffs into place. “You’d better have the sense not to run.”
It wouldn’t be much of a challenge if I did, Vaster thought. He couldn’t see a single warden patrolling the corridor, nor anyone blocking his way to the door at the end. Yet the faint hum beneath his skin persisted, nudging him northwest. What, exactly, did the head warden have waiting in his office?
Their first stop was the interrogation chamber he’d become as familiar with as his own cell. Two crude wooden seats faced one another on either side of a wide square table marked with the faded crimson of old bloodstains. The effect might have been more intimidating if Vaster didn’t know the most recent stain was the result of the outlaw Atoska No-Name headbutting her captor in the face during her interrogation and giving him a nosebleed.
Vaster settled into the chair, resting his cuffed hands on the table. “What’s new?”
And what do you have in your office? The question nearly superseded the one he’d been suppressing since his arrest, as he’d wanted the head warden himself to be the one to broach the subject of who’d betrayed him. His disguise had been impeccable, his false identity flawlessly crafted. And yet.
“Vaster Golt,” said the head warden. “You’ve given me quite the conundrum.”
“It’s an unfortunate habit of mine, I’m told.”
“In certain circles, yes.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ve learned enough in recent weeks to wonder how, exactly, you were able to get away with impersonating a noble, committing countless instances of fraud, and a dozen other offences besides.”
“Please, tell me about it.” Vaster had heard at least seven different iterations of his own story since his incarceration, each more absurd than the last.
Head Warden Medrit sucked in air between his teeth. “You adopted the name of Kuln Greben, claiming to be a security specialist from Kasvaun come to offer your services to nobles. You then took on the role of a security firm, through which you obtained untold numbers of valuables that you funnelled away into sales to various pawnbrokers throughout Nizwel. Among them was a priceless diamond belonging to the wife of the mayor that has proven impossible to track down.”
Vaster bit back a laugh. The diamond hadn’t been his work; the mayor’s wife had sold it in a bid to fund her escape from her wet sock of a husband. “You missed a couple of details.”
A flush darkened the head warden’s face. “You also took my wristwatch, which is still missing.”
“It’s over there.” Vaster nodded in the general direction of his office. “Did you check the top of the cabinet in the bottom-right corner?”
The head warden’s fist slammed into the table. “I’ve had enough of your attitude, Golt. If I had my way, you’d be hanged.”
Vaster tilted his head on one side. “Without a trial?”
“You admitted your guilt brazenly, to my face!” He drew in a breath, struggling to contain his temper. “The only reason you’re alive is because you had help, and none of your little scrabblers have put themselves forward to admit involvement.”
Vaster thought it unwise to mention that at least two of them had dropped by the jail since his arrest, but he had the distinct impression that he’d have to swallow his pride if he wanted answers. “Not even the one responsible for my recent accommodations?”
“What?” The head warden blinked, disarmed. “You believe one of your lice-ridden low-life scufflings was responsible for turning you in, do you?”
Well, yes. He’d given them ample opportunities to come forward, but unlike his predecessor, he didn’t make a habit of resorting to violence against his fellow scrabblers to extract a confession. Better to let their conscience win out.
The Head Warden laughed, an unpleasant sound like someone gargling glass. “Not at all. I received the tip from a private individual who offered only the name Mr O. Hurzaul. Sound familiar?”
Vaster’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t know the name. He’d taken care to keep a close watch on any nobles who might have grown suspicious of his act, and Vanfeld and Delka had helped him keep everyone pacified. He’d left nothing to chance.
“Interesting,” Vaster said. “Was that the purpose of this questioning? To discuss my impending death?”
“No,” said the head warden. “Oh, I’d like to, but someone else has come here with an offer that suits us both. I think it’ll suit you, too.”
Vaster frowned. “An offer? From whom?”
Not one of the other gangs, surely. They’d have come to him directly. As to the nobles, Vaster’s name was as valuable as dirt in their eyes now his ruse had been uncovered. Unless someone from his past had turned over a new slate, Vaster couldn’t guess who might have gone through the official channels to reach him.
“You’ll see.” He rose to his feet. “Unless you’d rather face the gallows.”
“Intriguing.” And oddly cryptic for a man whose words were generally as plain as his uniform. “Very well. I’ll meet your guest.”
Might this visitor be the source of the hum beneath Vaster’s skin, a reaction that arose only from the presence of scribecraft? Anyone might carry a runestone, whether they were Scribe or not. The wardens held a fair few in their vault downstairs, confiscated from thieves or mercenaries who’d had the audacity to pickpocket a Scribe, but those runes had long since worn out. This sensation was as sharp as a mountain breeze. Head Warden Medrit felt none of it, but Vaster had never encountered anyone else who did, Scribe or otherwise.
The thrumming only grew when they entered the Head Warden’s office. Grey cabinets crowded around a desk covered with papers; arranged, Vaster knew, to hide the crude graffiti etched by a group of drunken, off-duty wardens who’d broken in as a prank.
A man sat in a wooden chair facing the warden’s desk. Vaster’s first thought was that he wasn’t local to Nizwel, though he couldn’t have said what gave him that impression. His deeply tanned skin suggested Nicheloth origins or perhaps A’Halisian, but Yodren’s empire had once drawn in settlers from far outside its borders, and it wasn’t uncommon to hear a dozen languages spoken while crossing the market even now, decades after the last ships had abandoned Yodren’s shores. His clothes were certainly well-made by Nizwel’s standards, his crimson waistcoat and cream shirt a bright contrast to the drab surroundings and his dark shoes polished to a sheen. He looked fitter than the average noble, but perhaps what marked the man out the most was his expression, a confident smile that contrasted the false sneers Vaster had come to expect from those who wore the silver badge. He didn’t need to feign confidence: he radiated it. At once, Vaster knew that this would be a difficult man to manipulate.
Seating himself in the second chair the Head Warden had placed in front of his desk, Vaster rested his cuffed hands on his knees. He had, of course, loosened them within moments of being secured, but he thought it best to keep up the act for the time being.
“I heard you want to speak with me,” he said to the man. “Your name? I trust you know mine, if you went to this much trouble to see me.”
The stranger’s smile widened. “I do. You are Vaster Golt, renowned leader of the Steel Spiders. And I am Ivold Svan.”
His voice held a strange accent, one that didn’t seem to fit with anywhere Vaster was familiar with and which marked him as an outsider as much as his appearance did. It was his words, though, that struck Vaster to the core.
The Steel Spiders. He knew of Vaster’s gang, and instinct told Vaster that he had not come by that information inside these walls.
“I understand you have a proposition for me,” he said, determined to regain some leverage. “One that seems to have made the wardens reconsider consigning me to the noose.”
The head warden made a strangled noise at that, having crossed the room in an obvious bid to reach the cabinet upon which Vaster had placed the wristwatch he’d briefly detached from its owner’s arm.
“I’m told you have a number of skills that are valuable in situations other than those of a criminal nature,” said Ivold. “I wish to hire your services.”
“Services?” A handy euphemism, but one that put him immediately on edge. “For what, precisely? My skills are somewhat specialist.”
This time the head warden snorted. “For thievery and deception, maybe. He’s no use at anything more.”
Ivold ignored him. “I’m recruiting for a mission. A dangerous one that might end in your death. Should we succeed, I’ve persuaded the wardens to offer you a full pardon.”
Vaster’s mouth parted. “And what, precisely, is this mission?”
His first thought was that this was some ill-conceived attempt at a joke, but the head warden had no sense of humour to speak of, and no trickery would have convinced him not only to spare Vaster’s life but also to wipe his slate free of all crimes.
“The details are confidential,” Ivold said, with scarcely a glance at their companion. “However, I can say that our mission will take us outside of the city walls.”
The head warden looked affronted at that, as one might expect, but his lack of argument gained more clarity when Vaster considered that anyone who trod outside the city walls usually met a fate that made a hanging seem a relaxing prospect. Even the wardens didn’t dare venture out into the lands between Nizwel and its neighbours, lest they fall prey to the Forest of Stone.
“With a transport, I assume?” he said. “Is this an official mission sanctioned by Kasvaun?”
“No, it is not. And we’ll be on foot.”
A shiver trailed down Vaster’s spine. On foot? They might as well stab one another here and now and be done with it. Oh, some did survive outside the city—mercenaries and bandits, mostly—but their lives were shorter even than young scrabblers without a gang roaming the streets in the dead of winter.
He could see why this was not the sort of mission that one would undertake of one’s own volition. Beyond Nizwel’s steelstone boundary, a single wrong step might lead them to a den of bandits or predators, if not the Forest itself.
“I fail to see how my skills could possibly be of use out there,” he said. “There’s a significant shortage of people on whom to enact deception and thievery, unless you think landsharks are a promising mark.”
“You aren’t in any position to bargain,” the head warden broke in. “You’ll hang if you don’t accept, and frankly, I don’t mind either way.”
Head Warden Medrit was convinced, then, that this mission was of great enough importance to supplant his desire to see Vaster in the ground. His questions were manifold, but none would matter if he were to perish the instant that he crossed the city’s boundary. It wasn’t worth the risk.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he said. “I have other arrangements.”
“Such as slipping the noose?” The head warden’s lip curled. “If you think you can bribe your way into our good graces again, you’re mistaken. Accept or you’ll hang at dawn. That’s my only offer.”
Nice of him to give me some warning. Evidently, Vaster’s recent antics had pushed the head warden over the edge.
“Oh, he plans to get out before then,” Ivold told him. “I believe that he had another arrangement in place should you refuse his bribe, which involves one of his young scrabbler friends stealing a warden’s uniform and infiltrating the night shift.”
Vaster’s spine went rigid even as the head warden’s face reddened again. Uttering a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl, he jabbed a finger at Vaster. “I’m afraid your escape attempt has been foiled. Care to rethink your answer?”
I think, Vaster thought, I’m being blackmailed.
How long had Ivold been watching him? What manner of person was he, and why had the head warden willingly let him into the building, much less given him permission to stride around as if he held a higher authority than anyone else present?
“I have to admit I’m tempted, but personally, I like my chances better at the gallows.” Expert blackmailer or not, the man’s offer stank like a landshark’s nest and was equally likely to result in being torn to shreds. “I’m happy to take a bribe, if blackmail isn’t the only tool in your belt.”
“Is your freedom not sufficient?” A smile played on his lips. “How about that of your fellow Steel Spiders? What’s their new leader called… Gedwen?”
Gedwen. Shit. How did Ivold know that name? Gedwen wasn’t meant to be anywhere near the Steel Spiders; she’d been elusive enough in the past few years that Vaster’s attempts to track her down had been as effective as trapping a landshark in a cage.
Unless, of course, she’d taken Vaster’s position for herself.
There was no other way this man could have known her. Nobody else would have had the audacity to steal Vaster’s title, either. Vanfeld and Delka had been unwilling to assume authority during their leader’s incarceration, but he knew some of the others would remember Gedwen from the old days and would trust her.
None of them, Vaster was sure, knew this man had been watching them all with an intensity he’d thought only one person possessed. Someone who should be long gone.
He doesn’t know Svolger… does he?
Vaster shoved the thought aside; Svolger and his lackeys had left the city years ago. He raised a brow to cover his quickening heartbeat. “That seems a bit excessive.”
“I understand that you’re the kind of man who can only be persuaded by a firm hand,” said Ivold. “And since you have so many contingencies planned, you’ve forced me to take extreme measures.”
Vaster’s heart continued to race, his palms dampening under his cuffs. “I hope I can live up to your expectations.”
Ivold reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Am I to assume that’s an admission that you’ll be signing my contract?”
Fuck, no. His very instincts rebelled against it. When the man leaned closer, though, he felt a sudden resurgence of the humming sensation that had drawn him into the office in the first place. Runestones. Was Ivold Svan a Scribe? Surely Kasvaun would have had no need to employ this level of secrecy, but if he didn’t belong to the University, his influence over Head Warden Medrit went from unlikely to downright impossible. So did his very existence, come to that.
Vaster released a measured breath. “I suppose I will, though I’ll remind you that we’ve only just met. Are you quite sure you know me as well as you claim?”
In answer, Ivold placed a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Vaster’s gaze skimmed over the words, his mind ticking. He could see a way out, but not one that didn’t involve signing Ivold’s contract.
“Don’t have so much to say now, do you?” The head warden sounded positively giddy as he laid down a quill pen and then reached for the handcuffs. “Hold still.”
Vaster knocked the head warden’s hands aside, bent his head and picked up the pen between his front teeth. As both men looked on, he leaned over the paper and scrawled out an approximation of his signature.
“Little scuffling.” The head warden yanked the pen out of Vaster’s mouth, splattering the desk with ink. “Your party tricks won’t be any use where you’re going.”
“My thanks.” Ivold reached for the paper. “I’ll deliver this to the mayor.”
The mayor? Vaster briefly considered abandoning his plan, if only to find out how this man and the mayor, of all people, had ended up in allegiance, but there was a distinct possibility that Ivold’s words were lies as gilded as the ones he’d spoken himself when he’d taken on his noble guise. It was time to end this.
The head warden placed a hand on his shoulder. “Get up. I’ll take off the cuffs.”
“There’s no need.”
Rising, he tossed the cuffs aside and bolted with all the speed of a child of the slums who’d grown up fleeing the swing of a baton and the clamour of heavy boots.
He was out of the door and halfway down the corridor before the head warden’s swearing reached his ears, followed by Ivold’s amused reply. He didn’t catch the words, too focused on his sprint to the large window overlooking the front yard that he knew was never properly closed. With one foot on the sill, he pushed the window wider and clambered out.
As he did so, a giant hand seized his ankle, hoisting him into the air. The man to whom the hand belonged was equally large, more than a foot taller than Vaster and wide as a mountain ox.
“Ah,” Vaster said, the blood rushing to his head. “And who might you be?”
