“I’m looking for a man named Braning. Does anyone know him, know where to find him? I will pay for the trouble.”
The jeers went quiet. Eyes darted back and forth uncomfortably.
“Ain’t no one here named that,” one man said.
“But do you know him?” she asked.
“I said, ain’t no one—”
From the corner of her eye, she saw someone slip into the kitchen. A few other men gave their attention to the kitchen door. She jumped down and went to follow, and three men tried to grab her.
They barely even touched her. She flipped one of them onto his back and cracked the other two into each other. If anyone else had made a move on her, she didn’t even notice as she was out through the kitchen, into the back alley.
The fellow was running hard out to the street, and she sprinted after him. He turned onto the street, crashing and careening into things. He only made half a block before she caught up, and he was winded and wheezing.
“Not fair,” he said as she grabbed him. He made no attempt to struggle with her.
“True,” she said. “I run five miles every day. I don’t think you had a chance.”
“So, you got me. Going to take me into the marshals?” He looked resigned, even dejected.
“Wasn’t my plan,” she said. “You are Braning, yes?”
“That’s the name my father gave me, and he didn’t have anything else to give.”
“All right, let’s go,” she said, pulling him out of the way of the carriage traffic.
“So, you a bounty hunter? Hired to drag me to the marshals?” he asked. “I can’t imagine I’d get a fair trial.”
“I’m not interested in a trial,” she said.
“Ah, so this is personal,” he said. “I knew I should have stayed out of it.”
Amaya almost felt bad for him. She pulled him off the street corner and into an alley. “And have you been?” she asked. “Staying out of things?”
“I ain’t been partnering with folks like Tharek Pell, that’s for damned sure,” he said. “I said, live straight and clean, and I am.”
“Good,” she said. “So maybe you can help me.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Kemmer,” she said. “I’m given to understand you can find him.”
“So you can drag us both in.”
“No,” she said, a bit frustrated. She wondered if she should try to trust him, to gain his trust in return. “He’s been digging into something. A group of people. I’m looking for the same people. I think we can help each other.”
Braning scowled. “Who?”
“I don’t—”
“I know who he’s been looking into,” Braning said. “So you tell me, who do you think he’s looking into?”
Amaya lowered her voice to a whisper. “The Grand Ten.”
Recognition crossed his face. “And how do I know you aren’t with them?”
“You think they’re trying to get him? Get you?”
“I know they are,” Braning said. “That’s why there’s a plan in case—” He stopped short.
“In case he’s killed?” she asked. “Smart. Well, I think I know who might be The Warrior in this Grand Ten. And maybe The Mage. Is that information worth the risk?”
He scowled again. “I know who you are. You were the one who caught Lannic. And part of that whole thing with the ballots.”
“Yes, that was me,” she said.
“Aren’t you a Tarian?”
She nodded. “But like you said, this is personal.”
“Who told you to look for me?”
“Hemmit Eyairin. Of The Veracity Press.”
“Oh,” Braning said. “Mister Yand, the spy.” He chuckled. “He was a good sort, even if he did trick us. And I do keep reading his paper. And those pamphlets he put out as well.”
“He is a good sort,” Amaya said.
“All right,” Braning said. “Kemmer is staying in room seven above the Hard Whistle Pig, over on Cosky Avenue.”
“Thank you,” Amaya said.
“And if anything happens to him, the word is ready to go,” Braning said, pointing a finger at her. “Every paper will have the Grand Ten as their headline tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Amaya said. “But all the same, I hope to find him in good health, and intend to leave him that way.”
“Good,” Braning said. “After all this business, he . . .” He stumbled for a moment. “He’s pretty much all I got.”
Amaya nodded. “I appreciate it.”
She left him and made her way toward Cosky, his last words striking a chord in her. What did she have? The Order? If her suspicions were true, it had an indelible stain on it. Hemmit? Dayne? Jerinne? Friends, but . . . she wasn’t sure what they were to her. She had kept all of them at something of a distance. She had kept everyone at a distance. And with Master Denbar dead, she had no blood kin still alive worth speaking of.
If things did go poorly today, who would be there for her? If she died, who would mourn her?
She shook those thoughts out of her head. She had a mission, and she had a lead, and she would see it through.
On to Cosky Avenue, and hopefully, to Kemmer.
Veranix had lost all sense of direction. Following Asti and Delmin through the tunnels under North Seleth—which were a lot cleaner and better engineered than he had expected them to be—had brought them around several curves and spirals down.
“Are we still headed north?” he asked Asti.
“More northeast,” Asti responded. “But we’ve gone down another twenty feet or so.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m just paying attention.”
“Shush!” Delmin stopped cold. “This is . . . unexpected.”
Veranix drew and nocked an arrow.
“Easy,” Asti said. He moved up to Delmin, holding up his lamp. The passage opened up to a large chamber, where it looked like someone had been doing new construction. Tools, stacks of wooden beams and iron rods, gear work machines.
“No one here,” Asti said.
“Is that just for now?” Veranix asked, taking a step inside. “I mean, if this is here, it means—”
“Whatever work they’re doing isn’t done,” Asti finished. “So we have to presume they’ll be back. Unless—”
He went over to a set of wooden stairs leading up to a passage blocked by rubble and timber.
“Unless what?” Delmin asked.
“Saints, Thorn, do
