Page 37 of Up in Smoke

Will she be a problem?

Sunday, May 31, 2043.

Asylum, Oklahoma.

The Alley.

Benedict Mansfield oversawthe transferal of my cellar into Sandro’s home, and he spun the collection of keys around his finger. “Break nothing. Moretti isn’t to be trifled with, especially not now that he’s on alert. Make it clear nobody is to touch his vixen. We do not want the rest of the Morettis showing up. One is an asset. The rest are nothing but trouble.”

How nice. Mansfield had half a functioning braincell in his head, and he understood he needed to stay out from the eyes of the Morettis, especially Sandro’s mother.

However, I wanted to know why a damned can of fire-roasted tomatoes had yanked me to the past—and what was so important about Mansfield clearing out my cellar.

Somehow, Peace had wandered from the wagon into my hand again, and I’d misplaced her sheath somewhere. Fortunately for Mansfield, I couldn’t stab into the past and put an end to a complicated problem.

Men and women came and went from the home, bringing boxes and crates into the spare room, stacking everything neatly while being careful to watch the weight, putting the heaviest items on the bottom.

“Why does this vixen have such a stockpile?” one of the guards asked, an older woman who showed no sign of fearing Mansfield. She handled counting the incoming boxes and checking an inventory list. “We knew she had a cellar, but we did not know it was such a good one. I’ll admit, it surprised me when Moretti gave you the keys to his property and her cellar. He made it easy for you to make copies.”

“He’ll change the locks at his whim later. He likes his privacy, and he knows I know he’ll change the locks. As for the vixen’s stash, her prior landlord, Carlton Salsbury, was an importer,” Mansfield explained. “A good, solid man who was excellent at inventorying, ordering goods, and maintaining supply lines. I expected something like this when I realized she’d inherited the property from him. Salsbury took care of his people, and the vixen is well-liked through the lower populace.”

“Will she be a problem?”

“No. If anything, she’ll help the cause, as long as we don’t upset Moretti.”

“And the listening devices?”

Mansfield chuckled. “Our routine. I test him, he reminds me to not mess with his house. He likes making loud noises and startling whomever checks on them. The one outside should suffice for monitoring when he comes and goes, and it will catch any outdoor conversations. That will have to suffice. And if he uncovers that one, I’ll be impressed. But we’ve played this game before. The interior is his, and he will defend it. For the amount of work he’s done building Asylum, I can afford to have one house outside of my control.”

“And the vixen’s prior visits?” the woman asked.

“However much I’d love to figure out precisely how she got inside, all she’s ever done was admire the sculpting work and pay a call to a friend for information on her own bounty. That sort of cleverness should be rewarded. She’s always walked quietly and with great care, although nobody has ever seen her come and go. With legitimate entry into Asylum, I expect she won’t be using whatever bolt holes she’d found.”

“The maintenance tunnels?”

“Likely. Her activities are part of why I moved to bring the hybrids into our system. She’s demonstrated they can be resourceful, and the other hybrids we’ve been watching show similar tendencies. I suspect she’s the best of the vixens, and she’s best off in Moretti’s hands. He knows the rules of the game and will keep her out of trouble.”

“Unless he decides to cause trouble,” the woman groused.

“He won’t.” Mansfield picked up the can of fire-roasted tomatoes, examining the label. “Yes, it seems Salsbury had restocked the cellar shortly before leasing it to the vixen. He’d been working on the restock campaigns, and I’d always permitted him to order extra for himself. The dates are right for the last supply train he’d managed for me. He must have realized he wouldn’t be making it out of the outskirts alive. A pity. I would have made space for him in Asylum had he asked. But he’d been born in that house, and he had been determined to die in it. I’d asked the guards and law enforcement, and the vixen had handled his burial with grace. I owe her that much, as Salsbury had been loyal to the end.” Mansfield returned the can to its proper place. “However curious I am about the rest of the supplies in the cellar, do not meddle or look into anything. Moretti is skilled enough he might be able to write a poem capable of detecting our activities. Who knows what tricks his vixen might have up her sleeve.”

“You don’t think she’s a scryer, do you?”

“No, no. Scryers tend to go mad around here. I export them to the West where the burdens of the storms don’t weigh them down. If she were a scryer, she would have exposed herself by now.”

I bet he’d removed the other scryers from the equation out of fear they might expose him. I wrinkled my nose, tightening my grip on Peace’s hilt. The sword chilled my hand, as though she disliked the implication of his statement, too. Still, export to the West beat death in the Alley, and I could only hope he told his guard the truth.

And if he didn’t, and the bodies of scryers were to be found somewhere in the Alley, I would dig up those graves and make certain he paid for every lost life. Without proof, I could do nothing. I eyed the can of fire-roasted tomatoes, marveling over how something that insignificant could hold secrets—and had witnessed something of import and interest to the fate of an entire quadrant.

“Ah, yes. The exports. If you don’t think she is a scryer, what do you think she is?”

“Likely an undeveloped poet. Poets tend to attract other poets, and Moretti began sniffing at her tail the instant he caught sight of her. She’s far too clever and intelligent to be cursed with a scrying talent. Fortunately.”

“Yes. Exporting her would upset Moretti significantly.”

“It would.”

Well, shit. The way they phrased it led me to believe export meant death, and that there were bodies somewhere, likely to the west of the city. I would need to go on a hunt—or scry to find out what had befallen the scryers Mansfield had gathered. I’d believed they’d been recruited to serve him—not ‘exported’ to somewhere else. Had they still been alive when they’d been forced to leave the city? Had the twisters gotten them?