All That Glitters

Jani crept along the unfamiliar rooftop, looking for the night patrol. Two ceramic vials of alchemy weighted her hidden pockets. A long knife was at her hip. In the day, the blade dared anyone to protest that its wearer wasn't the man her pants and tunic claimed. Boots with yet another knife tucked into one. Gloves to keep splinters away. Hair cut short enough to be a poor hold in a fight, currently hidden under a dark cap.

Jani's fagin was a pants-clad woman herself, one-eyed from some trouble that she never told the same story about twice – but the constant was the determination that if the younger pickpockets and window-visiting catsmen could pretend to be boys and be politely ignored . . . Why not Turs? Why not Turs' crèche? So long as they were vicious enough to teach lessons to any who took issue with it, why not be men like some exotic barren bodyguard from the old empire?

Or like some jumped-up barbarian vixen, Jani thought, flattening herself to the rooftop as she heard voices. Nothing here but us roof-rats, she told the moonlight, watching as the voices got closer. There. Five of them. One tall, one average – the bodyguards. One not much shorter than average. Two small. Late summer had their heads bare, and the smallest one was dark enough to be an uncertain blur in the night.

Jani's instructions were clear on that one, but the one who'd given them . . . hadn't been the one who'd told her that the Lord Alchemist's lady went on night patrols with him. Perhaps it was some conceit of hers, humored by her eccentric husband, and she wasn't good with knife or potion – but Jani didn't care to tempt the wind spirits. No assassinations for her; she'd tell M'lord Mysterious she'd had no chance at Lady Kymus.

She'd wind up having to knife M'lord Mysterious in the back when he cheated her of the promised fee, like as not. His sort weren’t fond of actually paying their hired criminals, and she was even more wary after what he'd tried . . . But there was always a chance he'd play fair if she did her part of the bargain. Then she'd get herself dyed barbarian-dark and go hide somewhere for a year or two. It'd be like jumping up and down to avoid attention, but who'd think a perfectly pale thief'd pretend to be a disreputable savage?

The group passed by her rooftop, with the three shortest walking close together for a moment while the taller ones ranged and lagged around them. Two bodyguards, the Lord Alchemist, his wife, and one of their sons, said Jani's bought information. Nobility and servants in the light, condoned vigilantes of a night patrol once a fiveday, and winding up at the most shocking brothels, which traded rooms (and other things?) for the added security. The other boy, the dark spare, was off overseas, seeking an Imperial bride for his elder twin – one fewer complication.

Jani wasn't going to knife anyone. That was a stupid plan, handed out to an expendable pawn. No, just a little poisoning, handing over antidotes once the letter'd been signed. Probably an equally stupid plan, but with less chance of Jani getting killed, and more chance of Jani getting paid. Would anyone be soft-hearted enough to disinherit his own son, just to save a servant's life? The Lord Alchemist was odd enough to go on night patrols, eccentric or henpecked enough to let his wife accompany him, and crazy enough to have his sons go along as well. Perhaps the plan'd work.

And perhaps Jani'd be running down her designated escape route soon.

For now, she slipped off the roof, dropping to the brick path alongside the building, and shadowed the now-trailing pair (average and short-blond) till they rounded the corner. Then, when they were all briefly blinded by the well-lit tavern there, she dashed forward, knife in one hand and vial in the other. Run, crouch, jump in a flashy move that'd risk losing the vial and cutting her own hand off, if she hadn't practiced moves like it before. Her arms and legs went around her victim briefly, then her knees were bruised despite the padding she'd tried to sew into her pants, thumping onto the road's uneven bricks. Her target was cushion for the rest, his surprised shout turning into a breathless oof beneath her.

The short blond, who she'd marked as the son, gasped at her and brandished a small club. Jani slashed her cushion's shirt and the skin underneath, emptying the vial onto the cut so brew and blood could mingle. The stopper bounced off, lost. Then she rolled as the brat's club whooshed past. Well, he doesn't worry about his bodyguard's life! Serve him right to get disinherited.

She could send a message about the poison later – it'd take a few days to be fatal anyway. For now, Jani picked herself up and ran for that escape route, hearing a deep woman's yelp of Iontho! behind her and a man's Get him! following. Then she was around the side of a building, down a side-street, down an alley, jumping the shadowed crates she'd pulled into position earlier, pelting down and through and across another street, sliding her dagger back into its sheath, looking back to see . . .

Someone chasing, hair pale in the moonlight. Too tall to be the brat. The other bodyguard? The one she'd poisoned, not yet affected? Why'd he not stumble over anything? No time to wonder. Only time to run, all the way to the River Eath if need be, and hope her route wouldn't cross a city night watch.

Coming around a corner – people everywhere, shouting and snatching at her. Her cap came free, yanked off. Jani didn't know if they were revelers she'd not heard for the pounding of her heart and feet, or more night patrollers. She reversed and ran the other way, panting. She wasn't a snatch-and-run, wasn't going to last much longer if she couldn't pace herself and now there were fresh pursuers. She nearly passed a narrow turning, scraped her gloves on the brick catching at it, dragging herself in. Narrow was good. If she couldn't open out her arms, then anyone bigger would be even more hampered. With luck, they'd balk at following, when their quarry might turn and bite.

With more luck . . . Yes, there was more luck now, after the unexpected group yelling behind her. A crude roof-rat's ladder of crates and handholds where someone'd chipped the mortar between bricks. Jani went up it and onto the wooden shingles. She paused; they were shouting enough to cover any noise of hers, something about cutpurses and lost coin, so she doubled back, heading for the corner before she'd run into them. Perhaps she could catch sight of the bodyguard chasing her. Perhaps he'd be leaving and she could make her way back to her hired bunkhouse in her own time. She waited for her breathing to even up, then moved, carefully, along the side of the one roof and towards its neighbor that overlooked her prior route.

She felt the sound in her bones or the air, and dropped, pulling her knife again to lash out. She hit wood, with splatters of something next to her head and then a clatter as the short, flimsy club was torn from the man's hand and tumbled down into the street. Jani didn't wait to get lunged at – she sprang at him, slashing in front of her so moonlight'd shine on the blade and warn him off. He backed up-roof and stumbled on the shingles. Jani was on him in that moment, grabbing at the backs of his knees to thump him on his back.

Rot! he yelped, and would've curled to the side if she hadn't landed on him, knees into his body so he blew air out, then sliding to straddle him, feeling firm shingles under the padding of one knee, and his forearm beneath her other shin.

Don't move, servant-boy, she hissed (panted, more like), knife against his throat. Ain't paid t' kill you like this. The noise from the other group had faded as she'd gone back over the roofs, though she could still hear them moving off.

He tried to be still; she tolerated the coughing and choking for that, pinning his upper arm with her left hand. When he was breathing again, he croaked, "How . . . are you paid to kill me?"

You th' one I cut? Poison. Some alchemy thing. There's an antidote. I've a message, for your master.

He lay still under her, sucking in air. His voice was pain-strained. I'm listening.

I'll give th' antidote if th' Lord Alchemist publicly removes his barbarian-blooded heir from th' line of succession. Gives th' title t' th' pure-bred line 'pon his death. Very near the rehearsed speech, very near what she'd been told with fancier words. Otherwise, your death 'pon his hands, servant-boy. Hope m'patron was right 'bout soft-hearted nobles, for your sake.

Huh. He very nearly relaxed under her. Your employer's a blight-souled wretch, you know that?

She grinned, which he might see in the moonlight or hear in her voice. Aye, but he's payin' me.

How much?

She snorted. Ain't sellin' him out just t' get taken over with a loyalty brew. Bad enough what she'd had to dodge already.

Worth a try. So you'll have to let me go, with your ultimatum?

Sure would like that.

You know, if I were a dramsman, I'd not be able to do anything that'd upset my master.

Jani didn't freeze, but only because the last time she's frozen up with a knife at someone's throat, she'd nearly had her fingers broken. You a– a dramsman, then? she asked, and tried to remember which of the servants had been called that.

Well . . . No. His voice sped up a little, firming from a slow uncertainty to some kind of confidence. Not yet, anyway. The heir doesn't have a dramsman bodyguard yet, but it'd be a shame to set up such a relationship and find neither liked the other, don't you think? It'd have to last till someone's death, after all. No sense making both people miserable. Temporary job, see if it worked out.

Bad timing, Jani said, sympathetically. Not getting' you th' antidote early, though.

Mmph. Don't suppose it'd get your rump off me so I can breathe, then?

"Hold real still," she ordered. Getting off again, without risking being grabbed, was no easy thing. But she'd done it a few times before, in practice and earnest both, and she shoved herself to the side, knife-holding hand up to slash if he jumped on her. It was like being a cat, ready to put claws and kicks into anyone's gut who came at her.

He didn't. He pushed himself to a sitting position, slowly and whining owwww under his breath. He looked at the roof and shifted his hand, then licked it – to soothe a splinter, or a scrape from when she landed on him. Blighted nasty little poison. What if you caught it, too? There enough antidote for you and me both?

Aye. She'd managed to wheedle and gripe about What if things go wrong, and I get cut, too? It might take blood-to-potion contact for the brew to work, but if she'd been hurt? Not worth chancing that the antidote wouldn't stretch to cover both her and who she'd cut. Ain't got it with me, though. Not that stupid.

Rot. Worth a try. How stupid are you, then? His grin made it a friendly boy's insult.

Stupid enough t' take this blighted job, an' not get more'n a tiny bit of pay first. But better some coin and a chance at more, than her life – or even just some coin and a wealthy enemy, if she ran for it without trying to do the job. Jani's fagin would nigh-skin her if she made Turs' crèche look unreliable, and it was only her word against M'lord Mysterious' that he'd broken faith first.

It's going to look pretty bad for my job if I don't try to . . . get the antidote out of you. Or die trying, I suppose. He could've been talking about a passing troupe's play, out in the market.

There were indistinct calls below and behind her. Jani felt tension coil a little tighter – the barbarian wife was supposed to be some street-born brat. (How could she be anything else?) If she talked to those people Jani'd run into, she might guess where Jani'd gone. And, if Jani's luck swung bad again, Lady Kymus would wind up being a knife-fighter roof-rat herself, and climb after Jani. Aeston was unfamiliar territory; Jani was days away from the familiar roofs and alleys of Cym. A chase or fight somewhere the other woman'd have the advantage? Bad. Look, I'll be goin' now. You just give th' Lord Alchemist th' message. Once I hear he's disinherited his lad, I'll send th' antidote.

He tried to put an elbow on his pulled-up knee and winced as the movement went through his back. I suppose. Plan's got a flaw, though.

Now Jani did freeze, just a tiny bit and just for a heartbeat. Oh?

"What makes you think the Lord Alchemist won't have a brew to counter the poison?"

If he does, ain't my problem. If M'lord Mysterious gave me a weak brew, that's his worry. Jani stood. Good evening t' you, servant-boy.

Evening, he said, as she trotted off along the roofs.

She had to go slowly, turning the mostly-ground route she's planned into half-rooftops. Her legs were turning weak from running, and she tried to put the tension around her spine into them to keep them strong, rubbing one hand down her side and to her hip. A childish gesture, that Jani'd developed after some troupe's tale of magic, but sometimes she fancied it helped.

Chapter II

Iontho watched the grown roof-rat till she – he was nearly positive that was a girl, dressed in men's clothing – dropped out of sight. The catseye ointment made the moonlight almost too bright on the rooftops, though it leeched the color from everything. Once he'd marked where his attacker'd vanished, he went to clamber down the wall, fingers and toes into the brick as his uncles had shown him. He was nearly too big for it.

He paused at the bottom to call out to the indistinct voices of his searching family and their dramsmen, but it went into a cough as the exertion caught up with him. He pulled a vial from his boot pocket – and a good thing Iontho didn't keep them in his shirt or an over-robe like his father, or he'd have had bruises or cuts on his chest as well, from that roof-rat landing on him. The alchemy was a bittersweet burn in his throat and lungs, familiar and quickly passing. Being able to breathe freely was worth the discomfort. His back still hurt, though, for he'd run after the roof-rat without stopping to treat the wound, and his gut was bruised from her knees.

I'm here, he called into the darkness. I'm all right.

It was his mother's dramsman, Bynae, who showed up. Her alchemy-bleached hair was nearly white in Iontho's vision, tied back into a man's queue to fit with the pants she wore for night patrol. Your mother's going to half-kill you, she said, low and irked.

It's not my fault you missed. He grinned at her to show he wasn't upset.

He'd a knife! I was trying to get the baton's vial broken. Bynae turned him around and made unhappy noises when she saw the rip in his shirt.

Mm. That vial arrangement still doesn't work quite right, does it . . . Ow! Leave it – the poison doesn't seem to be working on me anymore, but it's supposed to be some delayed thing. He didn't have a tang of alchemy in his nose, though, nor the taste of it in his mouth as he'd had briefly, when the brew had hit his blood.

"Is it? M'lord Iontho, where's your baton?" Bynae made the title as cutting as his parents could make his full name. Of course, she'd delivered and half raised Iontho and his younger twin, Dareus.

Iontho grimaced, losing some of the excitement of catching up to his attacker. Bad luck – none of the paralyzing potion hit the roof-rat, and sh . . . he knocked it out of my hand on the parry. Fast, that one. And given a nasty plan. Iontho was glad she'd mistaken him for a servant, rather than gone after Bynae – or Brague, his father's dramsman bodyguard.

Come on, let's get that cut looked at, Bynae said. We can look for the baton on the way, or come back later.

The potion'll disperse well enough, he said, letting himself be towed along by the shorter woman. It won't affect people come morning.

Your father'll know better than I.

I'll be back here, looking for the blighted thing, then, Iontho thought, grimacing where Bynae couldn't see it. Iathor Kymus, Lord Alchemist, had certain considerations about irresponsible disposal of alchemical brews – such as the paralytic that was supposed to drip down the baton and numb whomever one whacked. And mother'd just point out that the thing cost money, and better to retrieve it before it vanished off into some fagin's crèche.

It was always annoying when one's parents wouldn't take opposite sides. Iontho knew at least three other barons' sons who could reliably get their way by asking one parent for a boon first, then taking that no! answer to the other. Of course, those sons didn't get to go with their parents on night patrols, so perhaps it evened out.

Or perhaps not, for when Iontho and Bynae got back to the others, Iontho was fixed with a pair of glares, identically upset. Father had the nuances of stern disappointment. Mother had furious over-protectiveness, though her fierce-colored eyes were blunted by the catseye ointment. Even Brague was frowning at him. Quickly, before someone started lecturing, Iontho said, I caught up with her – him – and found out what it was all about.

Her? his mother asked, coming and looking at his back, where his shirt was ripped and his back scored.

Think so. Dressed as a boy, of course. And therefore deserving that him, according to roof-rat custom. He went on, laying out facts that might distract his parents from threats to lock him in his room. "Anyhow, he was paid to poison one of your servants, Father, and provide the antidote only if you disinherited your firstborn. The plot seems to assume no one'd accept Dar in place of me, so I suppose it'd go to . . . someone else."

His father's expression went closed and shuttered, reminded of the brother he'd disowned, and that brother's eldest son. I see. Did you find who hired the youth?

Iontho shook his head. No. But he'd a Cym accent, I wager. No one local, who could have spied on us longer and realized I wasn't a servant. I think he thought Bynae was me. Ow. He winced as his mother poked close to the wound.

Father muttered roof-rats under his breath, then said, "We need to find this person and see if he . . . she . . . it knows more than it told you."

Iontho swallowed a yelp as his mother ran a wet finger across the scratch, leaving a burning in its wake as the potion sped the healing. As he bit his finger against the pain, his mother came back around him with her arms folded. She said, He'll be somewhere faceless and cheap, like as not. Down around Kelp Street, where the sailors and workers go.

The healing burn was short-lived on the shallow scratch. Iontho chewed on his thumbnail, worrying at a snag. Don't think so, he said around the thumb.

Hand out of your mouth, Mother said reflexively. Why not? It's cheap. It's where people don't care who someone really is.

He put both hands behind his back so he could pick at the snag without being seen. She – he went the wrong way for that. And 'round Kelp Street, the people'll sell out a stranger cheap.

Going the wrong way doesn't mean anything, Mother said. Could be to throw you off the trail.

"I want to check some places that aren't Kelp Street," Iontho said, since You'd let Dareus do it! wouldn't help. Spares could take risks heirs weren't supposed to, and no need to remind anyone of that. It'd go to We should notify the city watchmen and that would go to hours of sitting at a watch-station, waiting for reports, bored out of his mind – or worse, sent home to sleep and not be told anything till morning.

His mother frowned, but Father put a hand on her shoulder. He'll be out of trouble if he's wrong, my lady wife.

She thought about it for a few seconds, scowling. All right . . . But Bynae should go with him!

Bynae should go wake Dayn, so we'll have the buggy to move around in as well, and he can bring a new shirt for me, Iontho objected, looking for the right ingredients of logic that would shed a nursemaid before she was attached. If I'm wrong, I'll be in little danger. If I'm right, I'll be in even less, like as not! I'm already 'poisoned' – why waste the dose by harming me?

Mother looked like she'd object again, but his father said, He survived Cym, Kessa. He and his brother both.

Iontho kept his mouth shut, suspecting Father was taking his part only because he thought Iontho was wrong about where to look.

Mother tapped Father on the ankle with her foot. I'm wearing pants. You're supposed to call me 'Kellisan.'

Give him the chance, my Kellisan. Or weren't you and your family doing far more dangerous things without even thinking on them, at his age?

"We were replaceable!"

Iontho saw a flicker of pain across his father's expression, where his mother, looking down, couldn't notice. Iontho said, Mother, I promise I'll be careful. Besides, if I'm wrong, there'll be nothing to worry about. All the reports say the area beyond Fishseller's Lane is quiet at night, with any problems more likely to be a quiet pick-pocketing or burglary instead of thugs in an alley.

With her arms tightly folded across her chest, Mother finally said, All right. But tell Bynae where you'll be. If you're not at the Emerald Cat by the time Dayn gets there, there'll be watch-rousing.

And how embarrassing that would be, for him and his father both. Sponsoring a half-vigilante night patrol was one thing, that many nobles and guilds did. That the Guild's Master went on it as well . . . Eccentric. That he let his sons come with him? Even more so, despite how little excitement such patrols usually had. If the Lord Alchemist lost a son from it? Kidnapped or killed from stupidly going off on his own? Iontho nearly winced as the weight of the responsibility settled onto his abused back. I'll be careful, he promised again, trying to convince them he understood it wasn't just parental worry against his freedom.

Mother sighed pointedly in his direction, and turned to her dramsman. Bynae, does the plan suit?

As the other woman agreed, Iontho tried to regain a little resentment that Bynae didn't get told to be careful. Of course, she'd been learning brawling and dirtier fighting since before Iontho was born, from his father's bodyguards, Brague and Dayn. And she was neither heir nor spare of the Lord Alchemist, born too early and saved only by their father's hasty, experimental brewings. And at that, the alchemy might've killed the twins had they not been as immune to alchemical harm as their parents.

Of course, his mother's immunities meant Iontho had no other brothers than his twin, nor little sisters to tease and protect. The brews that put a woman into sleep so a bonesetter could cut a child out and save both lives . . . didn't work on her. The early birth had been hard enough, thin-hipped and small as she was; his father carefully took the men's tea that blighted seed, so there'd be no more conceptions. And Iontho had a shorter rein than his unsuitably dark brother. How can Dareus be a spare when the nobles and masters wouldn't accept him anyway? It was enough to make a young man sulk, save that sulking would convince his parents he was too young to evaluate risk, and he'd be sent home.

So he waited while those parents told Bynae where they'd look first, with Brague, and Mother assured her dramsman that she'd be careful of her own safety as well. Then it was time for quick farewells; hasty, tight embraces from his mother; and he and Bynae were left. Iontho took a breath. First, I want to go back and get my baton. Then, there's a traveler's inn, for merchants, east and north of the roof where I caught up with him . . .

Bynae listened grimly as he suggested a second and third hostel. Finally she nodded. All right. She poked him in the chest. "Do not make your mother cry, m'lord Iontho."

I understand, Aunt Bynae, he said, giving her the courtesy title of childhood. "I don't want to get myself killed either. I really will be careful."

She sighed through her nose, nodded, and said, Wind keep you, then, on this crazy chase.

Earth and Rain to your end of it, he said in return, and they turned away to their separate paths.

After the exhilaration of being on his own faded, he felt his brother's lack beside him, and had a sudden spate of paranoia. He was jumpy, searching (and failing to find) his lost baton before that faded into a reasonable wariness. He walked quietly, so he'd be able to hear anyone following him, and paid attention. The moonlight was bright enough for his ointment-augmented eyes to see better than even a roof-rat bred and raised to the streets and roofs of Aeston, if only he looked around himself. He didn't want to have any more ignominious encounters with the brick, dirt, or cobblestones of the road.

At least the roof-rat who'd knocked him down (twice!) hadn't taken his money-pouch either time. He didn't have a lot, but perhaps it would make some inn-guard willing to talk about the guests. Iontho grinned in the darkness. He could make this work, and then he'd catch himself a roof-rat.

Hopefully that would make up for not finding the baton.

Chapter III

The moon had moved over an hour's worth when Jani rounded a chimney, close to the bunkhouse. She watched around the street first, though, to see if anyone was lying in wait.

Nothing, it seemed. So Jani slipped onto the bunkhouse roof and moved to the most troublesome part of the original plan: getting back in. It required hanging head down, most of her body flat against the shingles – expensive clay now, not wood to let her drive a dagger into them and have a better grip. The obvious thing was to slide her blade between the closed shutter and wall, to open the latch out. It had been tricky enough to rig that latch so it'd go back into place after she got onto the roof. But if she could get it open again, some other roof-rat might as well.

Which was why she'd set the chamberpot beneath the narrow window, after using it and pouring enough water to cover the smell, like a cat buried its leavings in sand. In the darkness, it'd be a nasty surprise to anyone who tried to sneak in.

Once she got the shutter open a crack, she waited and sniffed the night air. Too much stink, too little stink . . . Either one would tell her something.

River smells were confusing, in the warm night. Still, no one was making noise in there, and the latch hadn't felt any stiffer or looser . . .

She pulled the shutter to the side, and used it as an unsteady, unsure anchor for her right hand as she slid around and curled, foot feeling for the windowsill. Worst part of the plan. Should've just paid the bunkhouse guard