possible, considering every muscle, the position of her arms and shoulders relative to the stance she wanted to achieve. At this speed, abrupt motions might injure her, while halting was dangerous. Her target had not yet fully raised his club. He was powerful, heavy, burdened by layers of banded armour. She pressed her shin beside his leg and took hold of his club and turned, lifting the weapon gently while easing her body into his bulky shoulder.
He began to topple.
Rachel let go of the club. She could not hope to wield it at this speed. His fingers released their grip on the weapon. Now the heavy baton crept upwards through the air. Rachel nudged it twice with the back of her hand, altering its trajectory so that it would crush his skull when he finally hit the ground.
He continued to fall. The club was still rising, turning end over end. Its bulky iron tip swung through a layer of smoke and began to descend towards the warrior's head.
Rachel's heart gave a long slow beat. She had not stopped moving. Her body flowed on beyond her defeated foe and then past Hasp. The Lord of the First Citadel stood frozen in the center of the saloon, his black eyes fixed on Oran. Cracked lips framed his yellow teeth. Rachel noted the tiny glass veins within the breastplate of his hideous armour, the stubble on his naked jaw. She took another two steps and reached her second target.
This warrior was leaner and quicker than the first, and his eyes simmered with rage. He had already lifted his knife to the height of his shoulder, bunching his muscles to cut down diagonally. The steel shone white-yellow behind his fist. A thread of saliva extended from his jowls, and his lunge had already gathered significant momentum. Rachel could not steer his body from its course without considerable risk to herself.
She broke his arm instead.
A chop to his wrist shattered the carpal bones there. The assassin then gripped the man's knife between her thumb and forefinger, and pulled it back in the opposite direction of the intended swing. She sensed his tendons and muscles rip. The agony would not hit him for another few moments, not until after he realized that the blow had missed.
The assassin felt her heart beat again, and again, and then suddenly quicken to a crescendo.
Oran still posed a threat, but for Rachel time had run out. Her heightened perception returned to normality with a crash. She lost control of her limbs and collapsed. A barrage of sound assaulted her, disjointed cries and groans and the pounding of boots. Oran yelled for order. Somewhere a woman screamed.
Rachel lay on the floor, her nostrils full of the smell of wood and dirt. Saliva dribbled from her slack lips. From here she could see the woodsman whom she'd first disarmed. The heavy club had landed precisely where she'd intended, crushing his skull. Now he lay in a pool of expanding blood.
She felt hands upon her.
A woman's voice cried, “Leave her alone!”
Rachel felt herself being turned roughly onto her back. A savage visage loomed over her, its cheeks and neck clad in bloody glass, its eyes as black as the abyss. Hasp bared his teeth, and his whisky breath spilled over her. His expression was one of rage and desperation and misery. “I don't want your fucking help,” he growled. And then he drove a fist hard into her stomach.
The assassin doubled up in pain, gasping as she felt the wind rammed out of her. Mina was yelling somewhere nearby; men were laughing and shouting. Hasp snarled. He punched her in the guts again, and again, then raised his glass fist above her face, piling all the strength of his upper body behind the coming blow.
Rachel closed her eyes.
“We are not killers for hire,” Anchor said.
Mr. D's strange wheeled box rolled back a few inches along the aisle, and knocked against one of the cabinets packed with bottled souls. Glass clinked together. The box's occupant spoke through its dark mouth slit: “I think you should let your friend decide that. After all, she is the would-be purchaser.”
Anchor could see Harper's mind working. Worry creased her brow; her eyes frantically searched the floor as if an answer to her dilemma might appear there. She was actually
“For my own security the contract must be signed in blood,” said Mr. D. “I find that purchasers are much less likely to renege on the deal when such a document remains in the hands of a thaumaturge. The threat of vengeful blood magic tends to keep people focused on their side of the bargain.”
Harper said, “Gods help me… I'll do it.”
Anchor was shocked to see her fall apart so quickly. This woman was no murderer. She didn't even yet know whom Mr. D expected her to kill.
He recognized desperation when he saw it.
“Excellent!” said Mr. D.
“Hell, no,” Anchor said. “I won't let you bully her.”
“She has agreed, sir.”
Anchor faced Harper. “Whose soul do you want to buy?” he asked. “Is it family? A lover?” He saw from her pained reaction that he had struck upon the truth. “A husband, eh?” He turned to the nearest cabinet, flung open the doors, and dragged out two fistfuls of soul bottles.
“That's robbery, sir.” Mr. D's wooden enclosure rumbled forward in a threatening manner. A strange glutinous slopping sound came from within. “Do you know who I
Anchor thrust the bottles towards Harper. “Use your mesmerist devices. Find him.”
She sobbed and shook her head weakly. Her gaze moved back and forth between Anchor and the proprietor.
“Do it,” Anchor said.
Harper fumbled in her tool belt. She took out one of those odd silver contraptions, a slender device packed with crystals and covered in etched glyphs. It made a sharp, tinny noise, and then started to whine. The engineer shook her head. “Not those,” she said. “But he's here in this place somewhere.”
“Your husband?”
“Tom. His name's Tom.”
Anchor uncorked one of the bottles and brought it to his lips. A tiny amount of liquid dribbled down his throat…
… and then the memories of the soul contained in that liquid rushed into him.
Mr. D laughed. “Now you've gone and done it. You've just consumed another person's soul.” His box squeaked forward on its wheels. “Your own mind, such as it was, is about to disappear.”
Anchor grunted, and then upended two more bottles. He felt strength pouring into him, even as fresh memories assailed him.
The tethered man threw the empty bottles aside, and grabbed more from the shelves. “What about these?”
Harper scanned them, shook her head.
“He's not changing, Mr. D,” Isla said.
“I can see that, Isla. Please unlock the Icarate cages.”
“But Mr. D…”
“Do it, child.”
Empty bottles rolled across the floor. Anchor kicked them aside and wrenched open another cabinet. Mr. D's box retreated down the aisle, its little wheels squawking. Isla scampered ahead of it, disappearing through a curtained doorway at the rear of the emporium.
Harper was staring at her device. “He's here, John.”
Anchor was drunk with power and memories that did not belong to him. His thoughts spun.
