Page 38 of The Only Way Out Is Up

“I thought—”

“I’ll explain later. Can you do it or not?”

I contemplate. It’s not too high, and going up is easier than coming down. Still, one of my gloves is already failing, and my limbs ache at the thought of carrying her weight.

“Maybe if we had a rope or something—” I cut off as Ky produces a coil of tightly wound cord from her satchel. “Is that some kind of magic trick?”

“Just good planning. This is my run-for-it bag. I had a hunch I might need to go out my window.”

“You might have mentioned that when we did go out your window.”

“I… may not have been thinking straight.” She blushes slightly and looks away in a frankly adorable fashion. “Sorry.”

The rope makes things simple. Star takes hold of one end and skitters up the walls, tying a deft knot to attach it to a protruding chimney. Ky watches him thoughtfully, and now I can guess why; it’s impossible to imagine the runics we saw in the street doing anything as complicated as tying a knot. She gives the cord a suspicious tug, but it holds.

The flat roof is made of corrugated metal that shudders under our footsteps. One of the panes in the skylight is already shattered, and Ky flips the rope to hang down through it. I can see shelves and piles of crates below, disused and thick with dust.

“Okay,” Ky says. “We’ll go down nice and quiet. When we find Weslai, I need Star to hold him still while I beat the shit out of him.”

“I thought you said this guy was your fixer.”

“He is.”

“And he’s going to help us?”

“He will.”

“But you’re going to beat the shit out of him.”

“I need to make the nature of our relationship clear to him.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Stars, I sound like Somi.

“Yes,” Ky says, and shimmies down the rope.

[Query: are we going along with this?]

I don’t see that we have much alternative.

[Unease: her judgment is suspect.]

Tell me about it. Just… be cautious. Don’t actually hurt anyone if you don’t have to.

[Dubious.]

But Star wraps his legs around the rope and slides down. I follow.

This part of the warehouse clearly hasn’t been used in a while, and we leave trails of footprints in the dust. I can’t even tell what’s in the various crates and sacks, but some of them are covered in actual mushrooms. As we creep toward the front, though, there are more signs of life. Some bright sigwork lights illuminate a cozy little nest, with a tangled lump of blankets for a bed, a desk covered in tacked-down bits of paper, and a high-backed gilt chair that belongs in some stately Hod manor. Various boxes and chests are scattered around, spilling a bewildering variety of goods.

I almost miss the little man in the corner. He’s a decade older than me but not much taller, pale and blond, wearing a threadbare bathrobe that hangs on his skinny frame like a tent. He’s standing at a basin in front of a mirror tacked to a wall of crates, splashing water into his hair and going over it a centimeter at a time with a small brush.

Ky grins. “That’s him. Can Star do that trick with the knife to the throat? Like he did to me, I mean.”

[Dubious.]

Just do it.

Star scurries forward. He slips under some crates, scrambles up the back of the mirror, and perches briefly on the top. The fixer manages a moment of stunned horror before Star leaps forward and lands on his face. Weslai gives a screech and reaches up to fling Star away, then freezes as he feels the very sharp blade at his neck. Star shuffles around to the back of his head, keeping the weapon in place.