Page 99 of The Only Way Out Is Up

“Kycilea,” he says. “You’ve come back to us at last. And in such a… dramatic fashion.”

“I do love giving everyone something to talk about,” she says airily.

“And this must be your… friend. The barbarian with the homemade runic.” Devon gives me a dismissive look and a fake smile. “How unusual. Congratulations on passing the first round.”

I’m probably supposed to say it’s an honor or some such shit, but why bother? It won’t make them think more highly of me. Instead I just give him my best smirk and an insolent nod. I hear a few chuckles in the surrounding crowd, and Devon jacks his smile a notch wider.

“Charming.” He looks back at Ky. “Be welcome, then, both of you. I hope you find the night’s entertainment to your satisfaction.”

“I’m sure I will,” she says, and takes my arm. We walk off, crowd parting before us, and I can feel her nails digging into my skin.

“Pompous bastard,” she mutters under her breath. “You hear him as good as say I’m fucking you as payment for fighting for me?”

“No?” The subtleties of Hod insults are clearly beyond me.

“You’re the only one who didn’t, then.” She lets out a breath. “He’s been at me since Father died, like a rat gnawing at a corpse. Wanted to marry me to one of his worthless grandsons. Any of three, he said. No doubt I’d conveniently go mad or have a tragic accident soon after.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Of course not. This is just the opening salute. It’ll get really vicious over dessert.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I think you Heapers have it better.”

I could enlighten her, explain about Uncle Claw’s enforcers and the plagues and Twisted burrowing out of the walls, but I think she’s just letting off steam. Several people have followed in our wake, drifting along so they don’t look like they’re following but ready to catch Ky’s eye and fall naturally into a conversation. She looks them over like a general surveying an enemy army.

“You’d better go, unless you want to stand around collecting insults,” she says. “Eat some of Devon’s food and see if you can find the other runic masters.”

It hurts a little to be dismissed like that, but it’s also a relief; if Devon was any indication, the citizens of Hod are not going to be shy about expressing their opinions of me. I pull my arm from hers.

“Good luck,” I mutter.

“Thanks. You too.”

Food is piled high along a line of tables against the back wall, beside the musicians’ pit. It’s dish after dish I barely recognize, fruits and cheeses and meats and candy, all so decorated that it’s difficult to tell what’s what. The lavish spread is mostly ignored by the guests; I gather from overheard conversation that these are supposed to be mere appetizers for the feast to come. I have a sudden fantasy of grabbing the corners of the gold-threaded tablecloth, tying it up like a giant bag, and carrying it back down to the bakery. Even Spike’s ravenous teenage appetite wouldn’t make a dent.

I take a few things whose provenance I’m sure of, along with a flute of something pink and bubbly. I think the latter is wine, although it bears little resemblance to the heavy, sour red stuff you can buy in the Heap market. There’s alcohol in it, at least, although the kick is minimal compared to the rotgut I usually drink.

Spotting the other runic masters is no simple task. Being from Hod themselves, they blend into the crowd in precisely the way I don’t, and I have to guess from the way some people stay at the center of knots of well-wishers. But Quech, Hod citizen or not, can’t hide himself, not with his height and slablike build. I find him towering over a small group of young women at one table, demonstrating some detail from a fight with his thick hands while they all coo with interest.

I can’t stop watching those hands. I keep expecting him to reach out and grab one of the girls, cracking her skull between his fingers, or wrap his hands around her throat like Pader lifting Ky.

“He needs a better tailor,” someone says beside me. “Or smaller shoulders.”

I glance down and find Niami next to me, eating with her fingers from a plate piled high with treats. Her green dress matches her hair, flattering her dark skin and curvy figure. She has a glass of wine in her other hand, which she quickly downs and sets aside so she can extend the hand to me.

“We meet again,” she says as I shake. “Not a surprise, really. Everyone’s here.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“It must be strange for you, right?” She pops something chocolate-covered into her mouth. “All this, I mean.”

“A bit.” I shrug, affecting nonchalance. “People are just people, wherever they come from.”

“That’s a very uplifting way to look at it.”

“Depends how you feel about people.”

She snorts. “True. I can see there’s at least one you’d like to sink a dagger into.”

Her head twitches toward Quech and his entourage. I frown.