Читать книгу King Of Fools - Amanda Foody - Страница 21

Lola scanned Enne’s ruffled sleeves, visible even beneath her black trench coat. “That’s what you’re wearing? To meet my bosses?” Her voice was barely more than a squeak.

“I like the blue.” Enne pouted her lips and followed Lola into the Tropps Street Mole station. Though it hadn’t rained in several days, the cement steps were mysteriously and disturbingly covered in puddles, which Enne carefully avoided.

“You have a reputation now,” Lola groaned. “You have to look the part, otherwise we won’t attract the best.”

“And what attracts the best?”

Lola frowned at Enne’s necklace. “Not pearls.”

“This city thinks I killed the Chancellor. Everyone knows I killed Sedric Torren. And I did so while wearing pearls.”

“You’re in a mood,” Lola grumbled as they slid their tickets through the turnstile and followed the signs for the gold line.

Enne thought of her meeting that morning with Levi and soured further. “Maybe I am.”

They descended the steps and waited along the platform.

“If you could buy anything you wanted, what would it be?” Enne asked her.

Lola narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve just been thinking about it lately.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. It’s—”

“Only a question.” Enne leaned her head back, smiling to herself wistfully. “I bet I can guess it. You strike me as a Houssen girl. In silver? In—”

“In black,” Lola answered quickly. This was clearly a fantasy she’d already given some thought. “Are you trying to buy my contentment for some reason? Because we should really be discussing the plan for today. You said Levi would—”

“There is no plan,” Enne responded. “I’d hoped Levi would have one, but he didn’t.” Her voice dripped with resentment. At least she’d learned her lesson: if she wanted something in New Reynes, then she needed to learn to depend on herself.

The train sped its way to the platform in a rush of wind, saving Enne from having to look at Lola’s undoubtedly frustrated expression. They claimed seats in a shadowed corner of the train. Advertisements by the doors featured perfumes held by famous opera stars and prima ballerinas of the South Side, or the address of a real estate agent selling “Once in a Lifetime” properties on the up-and-coming New Reynes boardwalk.

“Then what were you and Levi doing all morning?” Lola hissed. “No, no, I don’t actually want to know.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Enne said, flushing. “But I’d rather not talk about it.”

“So that explains the mood,” Lola remarked. “Regardless, you can’t be distracted. Not today. In fact, we need to be very, very careful. I don’t like Bryce on a good day, and after what happened at the Guild, he’s distraught.” She looked around the train car nervously, as though Bryce might’ve been able to overhear. “And he’s not typically a stable person.”

The more she heard Lola speak of Bryce, the more the prospect of this meeting intimidated her. “Tell me more about the Guild?” Enne asked.

“It works like a temp agency,” Lola explained. “If you’re interested in work, Bryce will find it for you, whether it’s with the gangs or otherwise, temporary or permanent. Bryce sets the price of each guildworker based on their talents and various skills. Two thirds goes to the worker, and one third goes to him.”

“Why give a portion of your earnings to Bryce when you could find a job yourself?” Enne asked.

“Some people aren’t looking for steady work. And some places only hire from the Guild, like the Doves. Expect a lot of assassin hopefuls there.”

Enne nervously tucked her ruffles into her sleeve. Maybe everyone else’s jokes were right. Maybe she was about to be eaten alive.

Lola drummed her fingers on the metal seat. “So we have no idea how to earn an income. No idea what sort of talents we’re looking to hire. No place for them to live—”

“I want to find a place in the Ruins District,” Enne told her.

“By tonight?” Lola asked with exasperation.

“Well, I don’t want to bring them to St. Morse. Can’t they stay with you?”

“I live in a studio. I’m not hosting some would-be killer for a slumber party in six hundred square feet.”

“Who said they have to be a would-be killer?” Enne asked.

“Well, it’s not like you’re going to find a lady,” she muttered, piquing Enne’s irritation. “I’ve convinced Bryce you’re some aspiring street lord, and so you’ll need to act like it. For starters, we need a trademark. The Irons have tattoos—”

“I already have that covered,” Enne said hotly, pulling two pairs of lacy, cream-colored gloves from her purse. “Let me guess, you hate them.”

“These are...ridiculous,” Lola sputtered with exasperation. “They’ll stain. A bit of dirt, a bit of blood—”

“Well, then,” Enne replied, her voice weary with fatigue and nerves. “Don’t get blood on them.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, as they wove through the Deadman District’s maze of alleys, Enne slipped on the black silk mask that she hadn’t worn since the Shadow Game. She and Lola walked the path side by side, dressed all in black except for the whites of their gloves and the bits of blue ruffle peeking out from Enne’s jacket. As they approached the end of the street, Enne suddenly wished she’d listened to Lola’s advice and changed her shirt.

After the attack, the Orphan Guild had relocated into what had once been called the National Prison. It was the tallest building for a mile in either direction, with a watchtower that overlooked the entire North Side. The metal gate stood open, one door broken off its hinges and leaning against the adjacent wall, the other in pieces on the ground, rusting away to nothing. The pathway inside was littered with loose barbed wire, cigarette butts, and wrappers of Tiggy’s Saltwater Taffy.

Unlike Scrap Market or Olde Town, which crawled with Scarhands and Irons, the National Prison looked vacant, a ruin from a ruined time. If they were to encounter anyone here, it would probably be the ghost of a prisoner executed within these walls, or a revolutionary who’d given their life to see the building blown apart.

Enne and Lola walked inside. There was no noise, no sign of life, except for the scurrying of a rat.

“Are you sure they’re here?” Enne whispered.

“They were this morning,” Lola answered. A crow cawed from outside. Lola jolted so much her top hat fell off, and she had to pick it up and dust it off. Even though Enne knew much of Lola’s tough exterior to be a farce, it was still strange to see her so openly on edge. “Let’s turn through here.”

A hallway spanned a hundred feet in either direction, lined with cells—most of them empty. The few occupants slept on cots or hung cheap artwork and torn pages of The Kiss & Tell in their new living quarters.

Enne had already decided she would pick a girl—she had enough male gangsters in her life. But the girls she passed were unbathed and ungroomed, slouching, stinking, with a ferocious look in their eyes. Enne had been naïve to think Lola had ever seemed frightening. She merely collected knives. These girls were knives.

Everyone looked up as they passed. Some whispered. Enne heard Séance’s name murmured behind her.

She’d seen her own wanted posters across the city, but here, she felt the effects of her reputation. And, seeing the skepticism on their faces, she already knew she wasn’t living up to it.

Lola held out her arm for Enne to stop walking. She nodded toward their right.

A young man sat in a cell, just like the rest of them.

But he was not like the rest of them.

His clothing—a white undershirt and black trousers—hung on him, an extra notch cut several inches into his belt to hold the ensemble together. His bones jutted out at unusual angles, all broad shoulders and crooked elbows and protruding hips. The way he stood, with one arm bracing him as he leaned against the wall, his head down, his other arm limp at his side, accentuated the harsh curve of his vertebrae and protrusion of his adam’s apple.

He looked starved enough to slip through the cell’s iron bars—ghostly enough to haunt the prison, not to own it.

He made no gesture to show he’d noticed them, and Lola called no greeting.

Beside him, a show played from a radio. “No,” a female actor murmured. “No, I couldn’t. What would my family think? It wouldn’t be right.”

“George knew this was the last time he’d ever see her again,” the narrator voiced. “And he knew nothing he could say would change her mind. She was meant for that six o’clock train to somewhere, just as he was meant for his father’s twelve acres of nowhere.”

“‘Dorothy,’ George said, in spite of it all, ‘Don’t leave like that. Without even saying goodbye.’”

The narrator returned. “The look Dorothy gave him was not what he expected. It was full of reluctance. The sun was rising, the train was whistling, and Dorothy had one hand on her ticket and the other fiddling with her parents’ ring on the chain around her neck. Just as the train’s whistle sounded across the tracks, he pulled her in for a kiss to make her forget all those dreams of New Reynes, to make her forget about saying goodbye.”

The Guildmaster reached over and turned the radio’s volume down. “The world isn’t like that anymore,” he mourned.

Lola rolled her eyes. “It never was.”

He looked up for the first time, giving Enne a view of his features. His eyes were black; his smile was taut. His lips were full and swollen red, matching the marks trailing across his neck and collarbone.

“No,” he said. “Dorothy stays with him, in the story. And they marry and have a child and die—tragically—of the fever. And their only child takes that six o’clock train to New Reynes, where he either becomes a victim...or he crawls to me.”

Enne flinched at the statement. The hall was silent, everyone clearly eavesdropping on their conversation, and the Guildmaster had described the workers here as little more than strays. She supposed that must truly be how he felt, for how else could he suffer a brutal attack from the whiteboots, see several of his associates murdered, and still be open for business in a new location the next day?

Looking at the Guildmaster, panic rose like bile in her throat. She’d come in the wrong clothes. She’d come without a plan. She was silly and naïve for thinking she was anything other than silly and naïve.

“I was hoping you’d come,” Bryce Balfour said to Enne. “I didn’t realize until this morning that you knew our little Lola, here.”

Anyone who described Lola as “little” or in the possessive, Enne suspected, was eager to lose several teeth. But Lola made no sign she’d heard. Although she was over eight inches taller than Enne, she seemed smaller than she ever had, her gaze fixed on the cement floor.

“She’s my second,” Enne explained. Even to herself, she sounded timid and quiet.

Bryce gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Abandoning me, blood gazer? We’ve been through so much together.”

Lola took the smallest, almost imperceptible step back. “It was time for a change.”

“You hate change.”

Lola didn’t reply.

Enne didn’t like the way Lola had gone silent, or the implication that Bryce knew her second better than she did. She cleared her throat. “Is there somewhere private we could speak?” The air here was thick with tension and stares.

“Of course.”

Bryce unplugged his radio and led them through the hallway, to the warden’s office.

A girl sat in the desk chair. She was beautiful, someone who belonged on the front page of the Guillory Street Gossip, sporting the latest designs of Regalliere or taking tea at the South Side’s trendiest salons. Instead, she was in a ruined prison, wearing a dozen strands of fake gems the color of blood and drinking murky coffee out of a tin beggar’s cup. Her hair was golden blond and hung down to her hips. Her eyes were wide-set and her face soft, like a model from an oil painting. At first, she looked like someone lost, but the keenness in her expression as she watched them enter told Enne otherwise. She was exactly where she belonged.

When Bryce arrived, she got up and kissed him so passionately that Enne flushed a shade as deep as the girl’s necklaces. The display—groping hands and labored breaths—looked more unappealing than erotic, clearly meant to make Enne and Lola uncomfortable rather than show intimacy. Now Enne knew where the numerous marks across Bryce’s neck and chest had come from.

In a corner of the room, Harvey Gabbiano scowled. Enne recognized his corkscrew curls from the night she’d met him at the Sauterelle, when he’d used his Chainer blood talent to try to coax Enne into joining the Guild. He referred to himself as a salesperson, but Reymond had called him a poacher.

When the couple finally broke apart, Bryce said, “This is Rebecca.”

Rebecca looked Enne up and down. “I’m his partner.”

Harvey scowled a second time.

Enne watched Harvey with unease. When they’d met, she hadn’t been wearing this mask. But unlike the other members of the Guild, he showed no interest in her or any hint that he recognized her. His gaze only followed Bryce as the Guildmaster sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.

“Can we call you something other than Séance?” Bryce asked.

“Séance is fine,” she answered, not wanting to compromise her identity. “Um, please,” she added.

Bryce gave her an odd look and scratched at the marks on his neck. “And what business have you come for?”

“I’m looking to hire a girl.”

“What sort of girl?”

“I don’t have anyone particular in mind,” she answered blandly.

“How...unusual. For a permanent position?”

“Yes.” Though, after paying Bryce his cut, she’d only have enough volts to compensate this person for two more weeks. Maybe whoever she hired could find a solution for their income predicament.

“Whatever you need, we can assist.” Bryce snapped his fingers. “Lola, the files.”

Lola immediately responded to the order. She hurried to the file cabinet, pulled out a handful of folders, and laid them neatly across the desk. Bryce licked his fingers and perused the papers. Occasionally, he’d show one to Rebecca or Harvey, who would shake their heads or shrug. Rebecca often leaned over to stroke Bryce’s hand or play with the edges of his shirt.

Finally, he handed Lola several files. “Go fetch these girls.”

Lola took them, shot Enne a warning glance, and left the room.

Enne took the seat beside Harvey—not because she particularly liked him, but because it was the farthest position from Bryce and Rebecca. Harvey hummed a ragtime under his breath and fiddled with a Creed necklace, one that matched Jac’s, except for the set of gold keys that shared its chain.

“You called Lola your second,” Bryce said. “Do you call yourself a lord?”

If you’d like, I’m sure you can make them call you a lady.

Enne’s cheeks reddened. “Yes.”

“Do you know how many lords there have been, since the Great Street War?” Bryce rolled up his sleeves, revealing a bandage and gauze peeking beneath one. Judging from the fresh scratches below it, Enne guessed he’d sustained some sort of injury from the attack last night. When he caught her looking at it, he quickly tucked it away again.

“No,” Enne replied.

“Take a guess,” he pushed. Enne had heard enough condescension in her life to recognize it in his voice.

Harvey cleared his throat, saving her from answering. “Don’t mind us. We’re only anxious, as I’m sure you can imagine—plus it’s thanks to you that this war was called. And it’s thanks to this war that eight of our associates are dead.”

Harvey rested a hand on Enne’s shoulder. Even when his words were harsh, his tone was still warm. She had no reason to trust him, yet suddenly, she wanted to.

“Not that you’re the one to blame, of course,” he said, flashing her a gap-toothed grin.

Enne was about to respond with apologies, or explanations, or whatever else Harvey wanted to hear, but even as transfixed as she was, she didn’t miss the dark look exchanged between Harvey and the Guildmaster. Harvey immediately wrenched his hand off her and leaned away, and the spell was broken.

Enne’s skin prickled, remembering just how dangerous Harvey’s talent was. With only a touch, he could probably convince her to spill her deepest secrets. And if she ever accepted a favor from him, Enne would be forever trapped where he pleased.

Every time she thought she’d decided which of the three intimidated her the most, one of them introduced some new kind of threat.

“Courtesy,” Rebecca snapped at Harvey, clicking her tongue.

“You know he can’t help it,” Bryce told her, as though Harvey weren’t even there.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes at Harvey, then she slid her arm around Bryce possessively. Enne leaned back into her seat to avoid their mutual glares. She realized that their attempts to challenge her weren’t what made her so uncomfortable—rather, she felt trapped in the intimate squabbles of someone else’s dysfunctional home.

She sighed with relief when Lola returned. Four girls followed behind her, most old enough to be called women. Enne examined their yellowed teeth and knotted hair with uncertainty.

“All of them are looking for full-time work,” Bryce said. “A variety of talents. A runner, a wordsmith, a truthseer, and a singer.”

Lola rifled through the papers with confusion. “Why didn’t you include Talia? I thought she wanted something full-time.”

Bryce faltered, and a haunted expression crossed his face. “Talia was injured last night. She’s here.” He looked suddenly young as he spoke. There was something darker than grief in his eyes, something that Enne recognized as guilt. “But she won’t be working.”

“Well?” Rebecca asked Enne sharply. “What do you think?”

Enne snapped her gaze away from the Guildmaster. “Is this really all you have?” Enne might’ve been playing at being a real street lord, but she would’ve preferred someone a little...cleaner, at least.

“You haven’t been very specific in your request,” Harvey said flatly.

“I’ll know her when I see her,” Enne said, which she realized sounded absurd. What sort of decision-making was that? Lola scowled in the corner.

“Fine,” Rebecca sniped. She grabbed a heap of files off the desk and thrust them into Lola’s arms. For the first time since coming here, Enne’s annoyance piqued. Lola wasn’t their servant. “Let’s go find this mystery person, then.”

As the others left the warden’s office, Lola and Enne lingered behind.

“You’ve irritated them,” Lola whispered.

“I’m not sure I could’ve helped that,” Enne said. “I’ve never seen you so...submissive. Are you afraid of them?”

“Aren’t you?” Lola responded pointedly.

Enne was, and it probably showed. But now she was also irritated.

In the courtyard were close to sixty people, soaking in the warm June sunshine, playing games of backgammon or Tropps. Many of them stopped what they were doing to stare at Enne. Shoulders straightened, chests puffed out, knives danced between fingers. They were showing off, she realized. The thought bolstered her confidence.

Enne’s gaze wandered until it settled on a book. It was a romance novel by one of her favorite authors, Sadie Knightley.

The girl holding it, however, made Enne pause. Despite the summer heat, she wore black from head to toe. She had dark hair, dark eyeliner, and dark fishnet gloves. A collection of necklaces hung from her, chains and rusted nails and the largest Creed Enne had ever seen, the bottom of its knot sharpened into a blade. Her skirt was obscenely short, making her stockings more suggestive than functional—she was clearly trying to cover nothing. Unlike the other members of the Orphan Guild, she didn’t bother to vie for Enne’s attention, as her gaze was focused on the book.

“Who is that?” Enne asked.

“That’s Grace Watson,” Lola answered. “Her blood talent is counting.”

Enne considered this. A counter was exactly the sort of person who could unravel their financial problem.

“You should know,” Rebecca said, her voice smug, “Grace never does jobs as a counter, even if that’s her talent. She’s one of our most skilled blades. And her price is steep.”

Enne withered. Slumber parties with would-be assassins, indeed.

“And I’m not sure she’d want...” Rebecca’s eyes wandered to the ruffles slipping out of Enne’s trench coat, and she pursed her lips.

Enne’s caution and restraint snapped like brittle cords. The North Side had a host of unspoken rules: how criminals looked, how they talked, how they behaved. If Enne was about to become a street lord, then she could make her own rules. The City of Sin would learn that a pistol painted pink was just as lethal.

Without a word, she marched herself toward Grace. What did Enne care if Grace Watson dressed like a harlot at a funeral? If she was a killer? Enne had killed, too, and if Grace was reading a three-time award-winning romance author, she could hardly be that bad.

“That’s one of my favorites,” she told Grace, nodding at the book. “I’ve read it four times.”

Grace ripped her gaze away from the page with an annoyed expression. She squinted at Enne’s mask. “I’m not interested.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“I don’t know who you are, but I’m not interested in killing your ex-boyfriend.” She glanced around the courtyard. “Are you famous or something? Why is everyone looking over?”

“I killed the Chancellor and Sedric Torren two days ago.” Unlike earlier, she now spoke clearly, confidently. Speak up, her instructors at finishing school had often snapped at her. Ladies do not mumble. Not even about murder.

Grace snorted and looked over Enne’s clothes. “Right.” She returned to her book.

Enne mustered up every bit of frustration she’d felt over the past few days and pressed the assassin further. “I’m going to sit here.” She wedged herself between Grace’s leather boots and the bench’s railing.

Grace held the book up to her face and said nothing.

“The love interest dies at the end,” Enne told her.

“Nice try,” Grace said, sounding bored. “But I’ve read this book five times.”

“Have you read the author’s other work?”

“I’m not looking for a job right now, so you might as well stop trying.”

“I want to hire a counter.”

“How boring.” Grace licked her finger and turned the page. “Hire one of the other counters. They come much cheaper than me.”

That was undoubtedly true, but at this point, Enne was determined. Hiring Grace didn’t need to make sense anymore. She’d pay top voltage if it meant wiping the sneers off Bryce’s and Rebecca’s faces. If it meant proving to herself that she could earn the respect of anyone in the North Side.

“Tell me what it would take.”

“Hmm.” Grace smirked and drummed black-painted nails on the glossy cover of the paperback. “You can find me a licentiously rich South Side man to dote over me and cater to my every expensive whim.”

Of all the requests she could’ve made, that had been the one Enne had least expected.

Without thinking, Enne reached into her purse and removed one of Vianca’s salon invitations. She tossed it to Grace.

“Deal,” Enne said.

Grace looked over the invitation with interest. “You said the job would be boring.”

“You said that. The job will be permanent, it will involve counting, but it won’t be boring.”

Grace handed her back the invitation and returned to her book.

Enne’s stomach dropped with disappointment. She’d thought she’d managed it.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Grace muttered.

Enne jumped to her feet and shot the others a victorious, smug smile. While Grace slowly got up and squinted into the light, as though intimidating the sun into disappearing, Enne was already at Bryce’s side. She held out her hand to shake. “It’s a deal,” she told him.

Harvey bit his lip to suppress a grin, even as Rebecca and Bryce frowned. But Enne was no longer intimidated by them. She’d passed their tests. And she’d done it wearing pearls.

“It’s done, then,” Bryce said, and he grabbed her hand.

When their skin touched, the air around her instantly turned cold. The ghost of a thread appeared in the corner of her vision, and with it, a thousand more, much like she’d seen during the Shadow Game. Every movement and sound plucked them like eerie violin strings—all tied to Bryce’s hand.

Enne gasped and jolted away. The world, once again, grew still. She briefly wondered if she’d imagined it. Or maybe there were still reasons to fear the Guildmaster.

Bryce’s eyes widened, then the corners of his lips twitched into a smile. He raised her hand and kissed it. “It’s been a pleasure...Séance.”