paid careful attention to the reflections in the window panes in front of her. Maybe it was pure coincidence that a fellow in a threadbare suit was lounging at the corner of the alley, and maybe it wasn’t, but with at least twenty rifles stashed in that one barrel alone, Brill wasn’t about to place any bets. She walked away briskly, whistling quietly to herself—let any watchers hurry to keep up—and turned left into the high street. There were more people here, mostly threadbare men hanging around the street corners in dispirited knots, some of them holding out hats or crudely lettered signs. She paused a couple of doors down the street to glance in a shop window, checking for movement behind her. Alley Rat was trying to look inconspicuous about fifty feet behind her, standing face-to-cheek with one of the beggars who wore a shapeless cloth hat and frayed fingerless gloves as gray as his face.
She started moving again, hurrying, letting her stride lengthen. She glanced over her shoulder—no advantage to be gained in hiding her awareness now, if she needed cover from civilians she could just say she was being chased—and spotted Mr. Threadbare and Mr. Hat blundering towards her, splitting in a classic pincer. Most of the bystanders had evaporated or were feigning inattention—nobody wanted to be an audience for this kind of street theater. Brill took a deep breath, stepped backwards until she came up against the brick wall of a shop, then held her handbag out towards Mr. Hat, who was now less than twenty feet away. “Stop right there,” she said pleasantly, and when he didn’t, she shot him twice. The hand bag jerked, but the suppressor and the padding kept the noise down to the level of an enthusiastic hand clap. She winced slightly and shook her wrist to dislodge a hot cartridge as Mr. Hat went to one knee, a look of utter surprise on his face, and she spun sideways to bear on Mr. Threadbare. “Stop, I said.”
Mr. Threadbare stopped. He began to draw breath. She focused on him, noting absently that Mr. Hat was whimpering quietly and slumping sideways against a shop front, moving one hand to his right thigh. “Who do you think—”
Brill jerked her hand sideways and shot Mr. Hat again. He jerked and dropped the stubby pistol he’d been drawing, and she had her bag back on Mr. Threadbare before he could reach inside his jacket. “If you want to live, you will walk ten feet ahead of me,” she said, fighting for calm, nerves screaming:
Mr. Threadbare twitched at Mr. Hat: “But he’s—”
Mr. Threadbare moved jerkily, like a puppet in the hands of a trainee. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mr. Hat, who was bleeding quite copiously. Brill circled round the target and toed the gun away from him, in the direction of the gutter. Then she gestured Mr. Threadbare ahead of her, along the sidewalk. For a miracle, nobody seemed to have noticed the noise. Mr. Threadbare shuffled slowly: Brill glanced round quickly, then nodded to herself. “Left into the next alleyway.”
“But you—”
She closed the gap between them and pushed the gun up against the small of his back. “Don’t turn. Keep walking.” He was shaking, she noticed, and his voice was weak. “Left here. Stop. Face the wall. Closer. That’s right. Raise your right hand above your head. Now raise your left.” Nobody in the alley, no immediate witnesses if she had to world-walk. “Who do you work for?”
“But I—” He flinched as brick dust showered his face.
“That’s your last warning. Tell me who you work for.”
“Red Hand thief-taker’s company. You’re in big trouble, miss, Andrew was a good man and if you’ve killed —”
“Be quiet.” He shut up. “You tailed me. Why?”
“You burgled the pawnbroker’s—”
“You were watching it. Why?”
“We got orders. The Polis—”
“Cove called Burgeson, and some dolly he’s traveling with. He’s Wanted, under the Sedition Act. Fifty pounds on his head and the old firm’s taking an interest, isn’t it?”
“Is it now?” Brill found herself grinning, teeth bared. In the distance, a streetcar bell clanged. “Kneel.”
“But I told you—”
“I said, kneel. Keep your hands above your head. Look away, dammit, that way, yes, over there. I want you to close your eyes and count to a hundred, slowly. One, two, like that, I’ll be counting too. If you leave this alley before I reach a hundred, I may shoot you. If you open your eyes before I reach a hundred, I may shoot you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“Start counting. Aloud.”
On the count of ten, Brill backed away towards the high street. Seeing Mr. Threadbare still counting as fervently as a priest telling his rosary, she turned, lowered her handbag, and darted out into the open. The streetcar was approaching: Mr. Hat lolled against a wall like an early drunk. She held her arm out for the car, forcing her cheeks into an aching smile.
The Hjalmar Palace fell, as was so often the case, to a combination of obsolescent design, treachery, and the incompetence of its defenders. And, Otto ven Neuhalle congratulated himself, only a
About three hundred years ago, the first lord of Olthalle had built a stone round tower on this site, a bluff overlooking the meeting of two rivers—known in another world as the Assabet and Sudbury—that combined to feed the Wergat, gateway to the western mountains. Over the course of the subsequent decades he and his sons had fought a bitter grudge war, eventually driving the Musketaquid wanderers west, deeper into the hills and forests of the new lands where they’d not trouble the ostvolk. But then there’d been a falling out in the east, among the coastal settlements. An army had marched up the river and burned out the keep and its defenders, leaving smoking ruins and a new lentgrave to raise the walls afresh. He learned from his predecessor’s mistake, and built his walls thick and high.
More years passed. The Olthalle tower sprouted a curtain wall with five fine round bastion towers and a gate-house larger than the original keep. Within the grounds, airy palace wings afforded the baron’s family a measure more comfort than the heavily fortified castle. The barons of Olthalle fell on hard times, and seventy years earlier the Hjalmars had married into the castle, turning it into a gathering place for the clan of recently ennobled tinker families. They’d bridged the Wergat, levying tolls, then they’d driven a road into the hills to the west and wrestled another fortune from the forests. The town of Wergatfurt had grown up a couple of miles downstream, a thriving regional market center known for its timber yards and smithies. His majesty had been unable to leave such a vital asset in the hands of the witches—the Hjalmar estates were a dagger aimed at the heart of the kingdom. And so, it had come to this…
The festivities had started at dawn, when Sir Markus, beater for the royal hunt, had led his levies up to the gates of Wergatfurt and laid his demand before the burghers of the town. Open the gates to the royal army, accept the Thorold Palace edicts, surrender any witches and their get, and be at peace—or defy the king, and suffer the consequences. He had put on a brave show, but (at Otto’s urging) had carefully not placed troops on the town’s south-western, upstream, side. And he’d given them until noon to answer his demands.
Of course, Otto’s men were already in position in the woods, half a kilometer short of the palace itself. And when they brought the first of the captives to him in early afternoon, bound so tight that the fellow could barely move, he had found Otto in an uncharacteristically good humor. “You’re Griben’s other boy, aren’t you? What a surprising coincidence.”
“You—” The lad swallowed his words. Barely old enough to be sprouting his first whiskers, barely old enough to know enough to be afraid: “What do you want?”
Otto smiled. “An excuse not to hang you.”
“I don’t know—” The boy’s brow furrowed, then the meaning of Otto’s words sank in. “Lightning’s blood,
