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Silas lay on his bed. A bitter smell of vomit filled the room. The only thing worse than the pain in his head was the hole deep inside him that had grown daily since Mara left. He couldn’t focus on anything else. He’d had entire conversations with Favian’s ex-men and walked away with no idea what had been agreed to. He’d even had a visit from Captain Glendor, whom Silas could only assume was after money.
He drank ale and nothing else, no water or teas. He played through scenario after scenario on how he could leave the city and track down Mara. Deep down, he knew whatever he tried, he’d be killed, and quickly. There were eyes everywhere.
He touched his throbbing eyebrow. He had a vague recollection of being sick on a woman and then being punched by her. He couldn’t quite remember her face. He stared at the ceiling. Why is this happening to me? Why do I need to be near him so badly? I’m no Wretch, as Mara would say. He doesn’t need protecting. Yet, he completes me. He looked around the unkempt room. A hallucination would do. Just to keep me going. Mara didn’t appear.
There was a knock at the door. Silas rolled out of bed and opened it. The boss-eyed Franco looked back at him; although Silas never knew which way Franco looked, he could only assume it was at him rather than the door frame. “What is it?”
“Something you need to see, boss,” Franco said.
“Can’t it wait? I’m busy.”
“It’s pretty bad, boss.”
Silas followed Franco to a dilapidated warehouse. Several of Favian’s ex-men hung around outside. What could I possibly want with this shit hole? They stopped their conversations and stood up straight as Silas approached, then followed him in.
The room stank of death. Silas pulled up his shirt over his nose and heaved. There were eight bodies, all lying in pools of black congealed blood, one of them headless. The three men closest to the door all had their throats cut, six blades scattered next to them. It looked like the rats had been feasting on them for some time.
He walked over to the middle of the room. The famous arena fighter, he couldn’t remember her name, lay twisted with a deep gash in her side. Not far away from her was the head from the body in the corner.
Franco had followed Silas across the room. “What ya think, boss?”
I think there are a thousand other places I’d rather be. “I know who she is. Who are the rest of them?”
“Dunno who the other girl is. The rest of ’em were Favian’s top boys. His closest. We reckon it’s another gang moved in. Probably called these lot in here to try and get ’em on side, then killed ’em when they said fuck off. These were loyal men.”
“If that was the case, then why would she be here?” Silas pointed at the arena fighter.
Franco shrugged. “Fuck knows. Favian hated her, I know that.”
As if things could get any worse. Silas didn’t care about any of them. They meant nothing to him. “Get them buried. Don’t tell anyone about the champion here. People can deal with the murder of thugs, but not of their heroes. Sneak her away and bury her outside of the city.”
“Yes, boss.”
Silas walked back along the docks alone.
Captain Glendor came down the gangplank of the Gallinule and bowed. “If it ain’t our illustrious leader.”
“Are you setting sail?”
“Tomorrow, sire. What a shame you won’t be joining us. You’ll miss all the fun, but at least you’ll share in the spoils when we return, aye?” Captain Glendor gave a mocking smile.
He obviously doesn’t believe I could have him killed in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t even have to bloody a blade myself. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Right you are, sire.” Captain Glendor nodded and walked back onto the ship.
And there she goes, my one hope of escape. Our escape. Silas walked back toward the tavern. He’d be drunk again soon, and that meant he wouldn’t have to think about anything for a while.
13
Mara tried not to be sick. The death smell was horrible, and he wasn’t even inside yet. He’d pulled away some rotten boards from the wall of the Wane compound and stared into the gap. There wasn’t a single part of him that wanted to go through. He looked up. No stars tonight, not even the moon.
He’d forgotten how hot it could get in Talon, and the air felt thick to breathe. He wiped the sweat from his face and spat on the floor. I hate this city. He pulled up his hood, covered his nose, and ducked through the gap.
There was a second wall inside. Mara slid along it in the pitch black, feeling for loose spots. His cheeks and chin itched and warmed up fast under his shirt. He breathed through gritted teeth, trying not to let the sour smell up his nose, but there was no stopping it. A wet board crumbled away as he pushed it, as did the one next to it. He pulled them to pieces and squeezed through the gap.
He stood at the edge of a pit, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back against the wall, holding his breath as the spit filled his mouth. He could taste the dead piled in front of him. He tried to calm down, thinking about how he’d been taught to calm his nerves with breathing. He filled his lungs with air through his nose, then leant forward and puked over rotten bodies, bones visible through holes in their flesh. He continued to puke every few sidesteps along the pit edge. Even when there was nothing else to come out, he still stopped to cough and retch.
At the
