The darkness was as close and cold as the dead's embrace. Vivargent squatted against the alley wall, hoping the night wind covered the sound of thunder in his heart. The fifth Big who'd joined him had stolen a shiv from Fist's weapons cache, and Vivargent clutched the thin metal so tightly his hand hurt.
There was still no motion in the alley. Vivargent stuck the blade in the dirt of the alley and put his hands in his armpits to keep them warm. Nothing might happen for hours. It didn't matter. He was running out of chances. He'd wasted too much time as it was.
Fist wasn't stupid. He was cruel, but he had plans. Vivargent didn't. He'd been flailing in his fear for three months. Flailing when he could have been planning. He had declared his intentions. That made it easy enough. Vivargent knew some of what he was planning; all he had to do was piece together how. Now, as he thought, he could feel himself slipping into Fist's skin all too easily, thinking Fist's thoughts.
A purge isn't good enough. A purge will give me safety for a couple of years. Other guild heads have killed to keep their power. Killing doesn't make me different. Vivargent worked on the idea. Fist didn't have small ambitions. He had bottled up his hatred for three months. Why would he be willing to not even hit Vivargent for three months?
Destruction. That's what it came down to. Fist would destroy him in spectacular fashion. He would sate his own cruelty and advance his power. He would do something so awful that Vivargent would become a story the guilds would tell. He might not even kill him, just leave him maimed in some horrific way so that everyone who met Vivargent would fear Fist more.
There was a shuffling sound in the alley and Vivargent tensed. Slowly, so slowly, he pulled out the shiv. The alley was tight, the buildings sagging so close a grown man could touch both walls at the same time. Vivargent had chosen it for that reason. He wouldn't let his quarry slip past him. But now the walls seemed malevolent, stretching hungry fingers toward each other, closing out the stars, grabbing for him. Wind muttered over the roofs, telling tales of murder.
Vivargent heard the shuffle again and relaxed. A scarred old rat emerged from under a pile of moldering boards and sniffed. Vivargent held still as the rat waddled forward. It sniffed at Vivargent's bare feet, nudged them with a wet nose, and sensing no danger, moved forward to feed.
Just as the rat moved to bite, Vivargent buried the shiv behind its ear and into the ground beneath. It jerked but didn't squeak. He withdrew the thin iron, satisfied with his stealth. He checked the alley again. Still nothing.
So where am I weak? What would I do to destroy me if I were Fist?
Something tickled his neck and he brushed it away. Curse the bugs.
Bugs? It's freezing out here. His hand came down from his neck warm and sticky.
Vivargent turned and lashed out, but the shiv went spinning from his hand as something struck his wrist.
Imros Clint squatted on his heels not a foot away. He didn't speak. He just stared, his eyes colder than the night.
There was a long pause as they stared at each other, neither saying a word. "You saw the rat," Vivargent said.
An eyebrow lifted.
"You cut me where I cut it. You were showing me that you're as much better than me as I am better than the rat."
A hint of a smile. "A strange little guild rat you are. So smart, so stupid."
Vivargent looked at the shiv—now magically in Imros's hand—and felt ashamed. He was stupid. What had he been thinking? He was going to threaten a wetboy? But he said, "I'm going to apprentice with you."
Clint's open hand cracked across his face and sent him sprawling into the wall. His face scraped against rock and he landed heavily.
When he rolled over, Clint was standing over him. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," Clint said.
Bella. She wasn't only the answer to Clint's question, she was Vivargent's weakness. She was where Fist would strike. A wave of nausea swept over Vivargent. First Duke and now Bella.
"You should," Vivargent said.
Clint raised an eyebrow again.
"You're the best wetboy in the city, but you're not the only one. And if you won't apprentice me and you don't kill me, I'll train under another shadowblade. I'll spend my life training just for the moment I have my chance at you. I'll wait until you think I've forgotten today. I'll wait until you think it was just a dumb guild rat's threat. After I'm a master, you'll jump at shadows for a while. But after you jump a dozen times and I'm not there, you won't jump just once, and that's when I'll be there. I don't care if you kill me at the same time. I'll trade my life for yours."
Imros's eyes barely had to shift to go from dangerously amused to simply dangerous. But Vivargent didn't even see them through the tears brimming in his own eyes. He only saw the vacant look that had come into Duke's eyes and imagined seeing it in Bella's. He imagined her screams if Fist came and took her every night. She'd scream wordlessly for the first few weeks, maybe fight—bite and scratch for a while—and then she wouldn't scream anymore, wouldn't fight at all. There would just be grunting and the sounds of flesh and Fist's pleasure. Just like Duke.
"Is your life so empty, boy?"
It will be if you say no. "I want to be like you."
"No one wants to be like me." Clint drew a huge black sword and touched the edge to Vivargent's throat. In that moment, Vivargent didn't care if the blade drank his life's blood. Death would be kinder than watching Bella disappear before his eyes.
"You like hurting people?" Clint asked.
"No, sir."
"Ever killed anyone?"
"No."
"Then why are you wasting my time?"
What was wrong with him? Did he really mean that? He couldn't. "I heard you don't like it. That you don't have to like it to be good," Vivargent said.
"Who told you that?"
"Nala. She said that's the difference between you and some of the others."
Clint frowned. He sheathed his sword, thinking.
"All right, kid. You want to get rich?" Vivargent nodded. "You're quick. But can you tell what your marks are thinking and remember fifty things at once? Do you have good hands?" Nod. Nod. Nod.
"Be a gambler." Imros laughed.
Vivargent stopped nodding. He looked at his feet. "I don't want to be afraid anymore."
"Elphrae beats you?"
"Elphrae's nothing."
"Then who is?" Clint asked.
"Our Circle's Fist." Why was it so hard to say it?
"He beats you?"
"Unless you'll . . . unless you'll do things with him." It sounded weak, and Clint didn't say anything, so Vivargent said, "I won't let anyone beat me again. Not ever."
Clint kept looking past Vivargent, giving him time to blink away his tears. The full moon bathed the city in golden light. "The old whore can be beautiful," he said. "Despite everything."
Vivargent followed Clint's gaze, but there was no one else in sight. Silver mist rose from the warm manure of the cattle yards and coiled around old broken aqueducts. In the darkness, Vivargent couldn't see the Bleeding Man freshly scrawled over his own guild's Black Dragon, but he knew it was there. His guild had been losing territory steadily since Elphrae got sick.
"Sir?" Vivargent said.
"This city's got no culture but street culture. The buildings are brick on one street, daub and wattle the next, and bamboo one over. Titles come from the Nordic, clothes Callaean, music all Oceanum harps and Salto lyres—the damn rice paddies themselves stolen from Orientem. But as long as you don't touch her or look too close, sometimes she's beautiful."
Vivargent thought he understood. You had to be careful what you touched and where you walked in the Warrens. Pools of vomit and other bodily fluids were splattered in the streets, and the dung-fueled fires and fatty steam from the constantly boiling tallow vats covered everything with a greasy, sooty sheen. But he had no reply. He wasn't even sure Clint was talking to him.
"You're close, boy. But I never take apprentices, and I won't take you." Clint paused, and idly spun the shiv from finger to finger. "Not unless you do something you can't."
Hope burst into life in Vivargent's breast for the first time in months. "I'll do anything," he said.
"You'd have to do it alone. No one else could know. You'd have to figure out how, when, and where. All by yourself."
"What do I have to do?" Vivargent asked. He could feel the Night Angels curling their fingers around his stomach. How did he know what Clint was going to say next?
Clint picked up the dead rat and threw it to Vivargent. "Just this. Kill your Fist and bring me proof. You've got a week."