tipping and plummeting into the alley, far too much for him to hold back. His end of the plank leapt up and cracked against his chin, knocking him backward, and as he was landing on his posterior he heard the echoing crash of the plank hitting the ground four stories below.
“GO,” yelled Sabetha one more time. Her shout ended in a muffled cry, and Locke spat blood as he clambered back to his feet.
“The other roof!” A new voice, a man. “Get down to the street!”
Locke wanted to stay, to keep Sabetha in sight, to do something for her, but his feet, ever faster than his wits, were already carrying him away. He snatched at the rope as he stumbled along, threw it over the opposite parapet, and without hesitation flung himself over the edge. The stones flew past, and the pressure of the rope against his palms rapidly grew into a hot, searing pain. He yowled and let go of the rope just as he reached the bottom, all but flinging himself the last five feet to land gracelessly in a heap.
Nothing seemed broken. His chin ached, his palms felt as though they’d been skinned with a dull axe, and his head was still spinning, but at least nothing seemed broken. He stumbled into a run. As his bare feet slapped against the cobbles of the road the door to the target house burst open, revealing two men outlined in golden light. An instant later they were after him with a shout.
Locke sprinted into the darkness of the alley, willing his legs to rise and fall like water-engine pistons. He knew that he would need every inch of the lead he already had if he hoped to escape. Vague black shapes loomed out of the shadows like something from a nightmare, only transforming into normal objects as he ran past—empty barrels, piles of refuse, broken wagons.
Behind him came the
Something slammed into Locke so forcefully that his first thought was that he’d struck a wall. His breath exploded out of him, and his next impression was a confused sense of movement. Someone grabbed him by his tunic and threw him down; someone else leapt out of the darkness and sprinted in the direction he’d been headed. Someone about his size or a little bigger.…
“Shhhh,” whispered one of the Sanzas, directly into his ear. “Play dead.”
Locke was lying with his cheek against wet stone, staring at a narrow opening into a brick-walled passage. He realized he’d been yanked into a smaller alley branching off the one he’d tried to escape down. The Sanza restraining him pulled something heavy, damp, and fetid down around them, leaving only the thinnest space exposed for them to see out of. A split second later Locke’s two pursuers pounded past, huffing and swearing. They continued after the shape that had taken Locke’s place and didn’t spare a glance for the two boys huddled under cover a few feet away.
“Calo will give ’em a good chase, then get back to us once they’re slipped,” said the Sanza after a few seconds.
“Galdo,” said Locke. “They got her. They got Beth.”
“We know.” Galdo pushed aside their camouflage. It looked like an ancient leather coat, gnawed by animals and covered in every possible foulness an alley could cultivate. “When we heard the shouting we ran for it and got in position to grab you. Quick and quiet now.”
Galdo hoisted Locke to his feet, turned, and padded down the branch alley.
“They got her,” repeated Locke, suddenly aware that his cheeks were hot with tears. “They got her, we have to do something, we have to—”
“I bloody well know.” Galdo seized him by the hand and pulled him along. “Chains will tell us what to do. Come on.”
As Sabetha had promised, Chains wasn’t far. Galdo pulled Locke west, toward the docks, to the rows of cheaper warehouses beside the canal that marked the farthest boundary of the Razona. Chains was waiting there, in plain clothes and a long brown coat, inside an empty warehouse that smelled of rot and camphor. When the two boys stumbled in the door, Chains shook a weak light from an alchemical globe and hurried over to them.
“It went wrong,” said Galdo.
“They got her,” said Locke, not caring that he was bawling. “They got her, I’m sorry, they just, they just got her.” Locke threw himself at Father Chains, and the man, without hesitation, scooped him up and held him, patting his back until his racking sobs quieted down.
“There, boy, there,” said Chains. “You’re with us now. All’s well. Who got her? Can you tell me?”
“I don’t know … men in the house.”
“Not yellowjackets?”
“I don’t … I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I couldn’t … I tried to think of something, but—”
“There was nothing you could have done,” said Chains firmly. He set Locke down and used a coat sleeve to dry his cheeks. “You managed to get away, and that was enough.”
“We didn’t g-get … the necklace—”
“Fuck the necklace.” Chains turned to the Sanza who’d brought Locke in. “Where’s Galdo?”
“I’m Galdo.”
“Where’s—”
“Calo’s ditching a couple of men that chased us.”
“What kind of men? Uniforms? Weapons?”
“I don’t think they were mustard. They might’ve been with the old guy you wanted us to rob.”
“Hell’s flaming shits.” Chains grabbed up his walking stick (an affectation for his disguise, but a fine way to have a weapon close at hand), then produced a dagger in a leather sheath that he tossed to Galdo. “Stay here. Douse the light and hide yourselves. Try not to stab Calo if he returns before I do.”
“Where are you going?” asked Locke.
“To find out who we’re dealing with.”
Chains went out the door with a speed that put the lie to his frequent claims of advancing infirmity. Galdo picked up the tiny alchemical light and tossed it to Locke, who concealed it within his closed hands. Alone in the darkness, the two boys settled down to wait for whatever came next.
7
CHAINS RETURNED a brief fraction of an hour later, with an ashen-faced Calo in tow. Locke uncovered the light as they entered the warehouse and ran toward them.
“Where is she?” he asked.
Chains stared at the three boys and sighed. “I need the smallest,” he said quietly.
“Me?”
“Of course you, Locke.” Chains reached out and grabbed both Sanza brothers. He knelt beside them and whispered instructions that were too brief and quiet for Locke to catch. Calo and Galdo seemed to recoil.
“Gods damn it, boys,” said Chains. “You know we’ve got no choice. Get back home. Stay together.”
They ran out of the warehouse without another word. Chains rose and turned to Locke.
“Come,” he said. “Time is no friend of ours this evening.”
“Where are we going?” Locke scampered to keep up.
“Not far. A house a block north of where you were.”
“Is it … should we really be going back that way?”
“Perfectly safe now that you’re with me.” True to his word, Chains had turned east, on a street rather than an alley, and was walking briskly toward the neighborhood Locke had just fled.
“Who’s got her? The yellowjackets?”
“No. They’d have taken her to a watch station, not a private residence.”
“The, um, men we tried to rob?”
“No. Worse than that.” Locke couldn’t see Chains’ face, but he imagined that he could hear his scowl in every word he spoke. “Agents of the duke. His secret police. Commanded by the man with no name.”
“No name?”
