The Burning Hand (2 page)

THAT WAS IT. After a back-alley meeting and agreement, they were going to go their separate ways.

I had to do something. It was too late to prevent or interrupt the meeting, but maybe I could dissolve the agreement before the firefly was delivered.

Or before they left the alley?

I checked my tools. The sword was no ranged weapon, which meant engaging closer than I would prefer. I'd brought along a knife as well, but it was more decorative than functional; the balance was poor and the hilt was identifiable as belonging in a much wealthier area than Red Flag. Or even Thornton. Throwing the knife, even if it were meant for such things, would end with Lord Hensley hunting through Hawksbill and the King's Seat to find me.

At least my mask was different, now. That was another thing I'd given Romily money for—a length of black silk, which
I'd later taken back to my rooms to cut and sew into a hood that covered my entire face, save my eyes. Sewing might be a generous way to describe the process that led to several dots of blood marking the fabric, but eventually I managed to make something serviceable. It didn't block my peripheral vision like the silver mask, and it was much, much lighter.

The Saint Fade Christopher mask had gone to Romily to be melted down and sold.

Below, the alley was clearing. Hensley and his four remaining guards went toward the main street, while the Nightmare gang was dispersing into the shadows once more.

Saints, what I wouldn't give for a ranged weapon right now. I could shoot Hensley somewhere painful but unlikely to kill him. His shoulder or leg, maybe. That way he couldn't burn me to death, and I could get some answers about his firefly.

Or maybe it was best I didn't have anything right now. I was a fair swordsman, but James kept beating me. This was no time to engage. Not without a plan.

Resigned and furious at my own inability to do anything, I started to push up to stand.

Someone shouted.

A knife whizzed and a line of fire sliced my ear. Behind me, the knife hit a mirror with a loud
crack
, followed by a crackle of breaking glass. That was a five-crown fine.

I pressed my hand against my ear, feeling blood against the silk hood. I crouched low as I scanned my surroundings.

There, on a nearby roof, stood a rust-tattooed man with a belt of throwing knives. Near him was a woman with a handheld crossbow.

Of course the Nightmare gang had people up here to watch from above. They hadn't seen me because I'd been flat on the roof, out of the way of the mirror—until I stood. And
I
hadn't looked for them because I was an idiot. It was amazing I wasn't dead.

But there was no time to chastise myself now. I had to get out of here.

In the same motion, I grabbed the knife the Nightmare had thrown and surged to my feet. With all my strength, I hurled the small knife in the direction of the woman with the crossbow. Then I threw my jeweled knife at the knife-thrower.

Both knives wobbled and fell short of their targets, but I didn't waste time. While both the man and woman were distracted by the glint of sapphire and gold, I took off toward the nearest roof. I jumped, hit the next building with a thud, and kept running.

“I'll get the gold knife!” called the man. “It's worth a fortune.”

The woman's footfalls thunked behind me. “There's a spy up here!”

A heartbeat later, another set of footfalls joined in, and then another.

Red Flag stretched ahead of me, huge and unfamiliar, lit only by the glint of starlight in mirrors. How was I supposed to find my way in all this? Where
was
Romily?

I didn't have a choice. I ran on, even as the Nightmare gang gained behind me.

A crossbow bolt zinged past just as I ducked behind a chimney—and tripped on a loose shingle.

I stumbled and dropped to my knees, but before I could catch myself, I was tumbling down the steep roof, elbows banging and knees thudding. Rough shingles jabbed at my ribs. I scrambled to grab something—anything—but suddenly there was nothing below me.

Falling, I flailed until the side of my hand hit a gutter with a numbing whack, and then grabbed the gutter with my other hand. The metal bit into my skin. Wood groaned as nails tore from their places, and the gutter gave way under my weight.

I tried to push the gutter out of my way and reach for the roof again, but it was too late. I was on my way down, the sticky night air suddenly too thin for my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't scream.

A pile of trash caught me.

Stray animals hissed and yipped, darting out of my way as I slid down the heap of garbage, making a racket so loud that it would draw every Nightmare member within a mile.

I tumbled onto the ground, landing with one arm pinned beneath me and my face pressed against something soft that reeked so bitterly that it immediately killed my sense of smell. Gagging, I pushed myself up and straightened my mask.

Everything hurt, particularly my hands, from the gutter, and my ego, from tripping and falling off a roof.

By the time I made it to my feet, I was surrounded.

Ten Nightmare grunts. Great. Four of Hensley's guards. Even better. Plus, the Nightmare leader and Hensley themselves, just to complete my humiliation.

I exhaled a low oath.
Now
what? If Lord Hensley caught me—

No. I wouldn't let him.

I drew my sword and put my back to the wall and trash.

One of the Nightmares laughed. “I'm almost afraid he's going to impale himself.”

My face heated and I was grateful for my mask, but any smart retort died on my lips. Hensley was leaning toward the Nightmare woman.

“Know him?”

She shook her head. “I assumed he was one of yours.”

Hensley narrowed his eyes and stepped toward me, his magic-wielding hands at his sides. “Not one of mine. Though there have been some reports of a masked vigilante. I came across one recently wearing the mask of Saint Fade Christopher. . . .” His voice held a note of amusement, like he expected I was the same person.

He started to reach for me. To rip off my mask?

I didn't think.

I reacted.

I lunged toward him and sliced my sword through the air.

He jerked back.

Not fast enough.

My blade hit resistance, but the force and momentum were too strong. The sword went through Hensley's right wrist. His hand came flying off.

He screamed wordlessly and then everything was chaos. Nightmares rushed in, their weapons raised. One of them had my jeweled knife pointed at my heart. Two of Hensley's guards hurried to help him, while the others joined the Nightmares.

Before I realized, everyone was moving. I swung my sword
and dodged a punch. Metal clacked and fire raced across my thigh. I gasped and lashed back with my blade, but it was too late. I'd left myself unguarded and the Nightmares took advantage of it.

Pain sizzled where a chain lashed across my ribs. I gasped and doubled over, and someone laughed as they slapped my sword from my grip.

That was it. Suddenly, kicking me was a game.

One shoved me into the pile of trash and they surrounded me. A huge metal pipe crashed against my hand, numbing up to my shoulder. With a pathetic groan, I tried to pick myself up to make some kind of defense, but a man's boot fell to my chest and shoved me back down.

Through the wall of bodies around me, and my dimming vision, I caught the Nightmare woman leaving with several of her people. Lord Hensley and all his guards were already gone, his hand with him, likely.

“Maybe we'll cut off
his
hand.” One of the women took up my sword and drew it back to strike.

I struggled for my feet, but one of the men had come around behind me to press his big, meaty hands on my shoulders and neck. Another waved my jeweled knife in my face for a second before pressing the tip against the hollow of my throat. My breath hissed and the edges of my vision dimmed. Someone else bashed my knees as I struggled to lift my legs to kick.

I couldn't move.

A man grabbed my hand and stretched out my fingers. “Watch your aim,” he joked.

The woman lifted my sword above her head. My vision was
so foggy I could barely see it as she brought it down. I tried to brace for pain, but I could hardly think. No matter how I struggled to escape, it was futile. I was going to lose my hand. And then my life.

The pain never came.

“I
really
like that shiny knife.” It was a girl's voice. “I want it.”

The pressure on my throat lightened. I gagged and pressed my hands against my masked face as the men holding me down took to their feet.

There was no time to catch my breath, though. When I looked up, I caught sight of the Nightmares facing off with four girls, my age and younger. The girls were holding their own, though. Armed with daggers and long knives, they ducked in and out of the Nightmares' guard, slashing and cutting until the rust-colored tattoos turned red with blood and their clothes were damp.

I staggered to my feet and scraped my sword off the ground where the woman had dropped it. She was already down, a purple bruise marking her temple.

I pressed into the fighting to add my mark on the Nightmares, but it was too late. The girls cut and sliced, and one by one the Nightmares dropped to the ground. Alive, but weak with blood loss. The girls had been very careful to avoid main arteries, which would have killed them.

My sword clattered back to the ground, drawing the girls' gazes.

One girl stood at the fore of the group. She wore a plain, serviceable shirt and trousers, and boots that hugged her calves like
a second skin. A long, dark brown braid hung over one shoulder, and she held a pair of daggers at her sides. Blood dripped from one of the points. “You all right?” Her dark gaze swept over me, unimpressed.

I couldn't answer. Every muscle in my body ached. Bruises were forming all over my arms and legs, and even breathing set my ribs on fire. Struggling to remain upright, I gave a faint nod.

She frowned. Of course I wasn't all right. I'd been beaten half to death and it seemed likely I had a broken rib. But she glanced at the other girls—one black-haired girl who might be Braid Girl's sister, and two a few years younger, but no less skilled with their weapons—and seemed to shake away any thought of helping me.

“Get the knife,” Braid Girl said, and the black-haired girl dashed for the Nightmare who'd been trying to kill me with my jeweled knife. The gold hilt gleamed in weak light reflected by the mirrors.

“That's mine.” The words were pale. Pointless. I had no hope of taking it back from them. As if to prove the point, my legs gave out and I hit the dirt with painful jolts to my knees. But everything else hurt so much, this hardly made a difference.

“Ours now,” said the black-haired girl. “Seems we earned it, too.” She flipped the knife around a few times.

I looked at Braid Girl again. There was something about her. Not beauty, though there was a knifelike beauty to her sharp cheekbones and the way she lidded those dark eyes, but a fierceness. A promise that, even though she'd brought these other girls into a fight with the most dangerous—to my knowledge—gang in Skyvale, she'd never let them get hurt. And that was beautiful.

“Get some help,” Braid Girl said, and then the four of them turned down the alley.

“Who was that?” one of the younger girls asked.

“Someone with more problems than a stolen knife.” Braid Girl turned to the black-haired girl. “Let me see it?”

Her friend tossed the knife; Braid Girl caught it by the hilt.

“Nice. This should go a long way.” She spun it and tested the balance. “Ew. Selling the parts is all it's good for. We're doing it a favor.”

The other three laughed as they disappeared around a corner.

I picked myself up off the ground and took a step after them, but one of the Nightmares groaned. Even if I'd been physically capable of following after those girls, there wasn't time.

Before the Nightmares woke up, I needed to get the police here and have them taken in—and do that without revealing my identity. If that got out, Hensley would really have a reason to hate me.

Resignedly, I stripped off the Nightmare's belts, shoelaces, and anything else I could use as restraints, and then bound their hands and feet together. In my head, I created a list of things I needed to add to my vigilante gear: gloves, ties, ranged weapons, painkillers. . . .

Painkillers. The way everything hurt right now, a whole new body wouldn't go amiss.

How was I going to explain this when I got back to the palace?

IN THE MORNING, I felt even worse.

“Are you going to sleep all day?” James asked as he came into my room.

I groaned and started to pull the covers over my eyes, but that hurt too much. “Your assumption that I've been sleeping is, I'm afraid, incorrect. I've been listening to the clock tower chime every hour.”

“So you know it's nearly ten and you missed our training session. And breakfast. And the first hour of lessons. And you must know that”—he whipped the blankets off the bed—“you're making me miss classes, too, because your father caught me on my way out and asked me to check on you. He thinks you've fallen ill.”

Of course Father had sent James up, rather than come himself. That would have been much too paternal.

“The real problem is that it's hard to move. I have almost
no memory of coming in last night.” Vaguely, I recalled nearly dying on my way over the Hawksbill wall, briefly passing out somewhere near the Chuter mansion, and trying four times to get my grappling hook over the edge of my balcony. Not to mention the tense moments of praying the passing guards didn't see me hunched in the shadows. “I am ill, though.”

James backed away.

“Ill with the knowledge of what's happening in Skyvale, right under Father's nose. What kind of king doesn't see his latest favorite for the firefly-making monster that he is? What kind of king doesn't notice his people suffering under the tyranny of the Nightmare gang, or shine, or firefly, or just
poverty
. Do you know how many homeless people I saw just last night?”

James thrust open the curtains, letting in the blinding midmorning light. “How many?”

“I didn't count. It was too depressing.”

“Are you going to get up?”

“To be honest, I'm not sure I can.” But I pushed my elbows back and gave it a try. Fire sliced down my ribs, and all through the bruises collected from last night. I groaned and fell back. “No. At least not yet. I'll work up to it.” I started with my toes. They moved well enough. That was something.

“Well, your father has noticed your late mornings. Master Blanc has noticed your absence from his sword lessons. If you're going to keep up these late nights, you'll need to come up with an excuse. Particularly if you're going to get injured. Are you going to live?”

“The pain says yes.” My eyes were heavy with the late night, followed by hours of drifting in and out of agony-hazed
consciousness. “As for an excuse, just tell everyone I'm lazy.”

“Is that really the image you want to have?” James rolled his eyes. “I think you should tell your father.”

“That I'm lazy?” I smirked and found my way to a somewhat sitting position.

“No.” He perched on the corner of the desk and crossed his arms. “Your father is worried about you. Look at it from his point of view. In just a couple of weeks, you've completely changed. You sleep late. You accuse his lords of being flashers—”

“Hensley
is
a flasher.”

“I know he is, but he's good at hiding it, and your father believes him.”

My father believed a lord over his own son. Yes. I knew that.

“And you've been ignoring your duties. Contrary to what others may believe about you, you do have duties you must attend to. Crown princes can't just laze about all day.”

“They can if they're the only heirs.” My older brother, saints keep him, had died as an infant.

“You have two uncles. Colin is in line after you.”

Uncle Colin already had Aecor Territory. Wasn't that enough for him?

Still, James had a point. If I wanted to keep my title and my future as sovereign of the Indigo Kingdom, I had to keep up with my duties. “Fine.” I shoved myself out of bed and limped for the parlor. The scent of warm bread, eggs, and fatty bacon drew me toward the table. “I'll do better in the future.”

James snorted. “Why don't you just tell your father what's been going on?”

“Tell him what?” I plucked the lid off a bowl of fruit. Strawberries, blueberries, and melon. “That I sneaked out of Hawksbill? That I watched Lord Hensley murder Professor Knight and I did nothing?” My stomach rolled and I pushed the breakfast tray away.

James snatched up a piece of bacon. “Tell him that Hensley is behind the firefly. He'll have to investigate that. And Knight's murder.”

Every night in my dreams, I watched Hensley reach for Knight, press his palm to the professor's forehead, and burn. Every morning—afternoon, lately—I awakened with the scent of charred flesh humming around my room. It wasn't real. It
wasn't
, but the guilt was.

James leaned back in his seat. “Why don't you tell me what happened last night? You look like you lost a fight to me.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but it hurt too much. “Romily and I were supposed to spy on a meeting between Hensley and the Nightmare gang. She didn't show, but I saw the meeting. We have seven days—six, now—until the Flags are filled with Hensley's firefly.”

My cousin winced. “But spying didn't do that to you.” He waved sort of all over at me.

“Then I was spotted. I tripped and fell off a roof, dropped into a pile of trash, was beaten and nearly lost a hand to my own sword, and then saved by a gang of girls.”

“Girls?” James raised an eyebrow.

“They were great fighters.”

He gave an impressed nod. “Lucky.”

“But they stole my knife.”

James sighed. “So they were after the prize, not aiming to save your life.”

“Definitely not. But I did cut off Lord Hensley's hand.”

A slow grin crept onto his face. “Really?”

“By accident.”

“Nevertheless.” James looked proud. “Not that I think we should take dismemberment lightly. Now that the vigilante has actually
hurt
someone, your reputation will change.”

“I didn't realize I had one, beyond the Saint Fade Christopher mask.” Even eating hurt, but I forced down a bite of eggs. “And at that point I was a burglar.”

“Most people have forgotten about that one.”

Not Lord Hensley, unfortunately.

“But yes, the black-masked vigilante. You have a few admirers, mostly whispers from the Flags. I suspect Romily has been spreading the word that you aim to stop the Burning Hand.” He cocked his head and grinned. “And now you've cut off the Burning Hand's hand, so that's a start.”

“I thought we agreed to not take dismemberment so lightly. It's probably not appropriate to make jokes.” I finished the eggs and moved on to the bacon. “Well, I don't care about a reputation one way or another, unless those admirers can help stop Hensley's firefly deal in six days.”

It probably wasn't a bad idea to cultivate a network of informants in the city, like James had. I'd have to put some thought into communication; the less direct contact I had with people, the better. If I was ever identified as Crown Prince Tobiah . . . well, I wouldn't be. I couldn't take the risk.

“Last night was eye-opening,” I said as I picked out the
melons and put them on a separate plate for James. “I realized that I'm going to need a lot more training. What I've been doing with Romily isn't enough. I can't count on her to show up every night; she has a family who wants to keep her safe. And I can't put her in danger like that.”

James looked at me like maybe I should consider not putting myself in danger like that.

“I need more training, and I need to do it in secret.”

“When do you plan on doing that?” he asked.

“Any time we can spare a moment.”

“
We?
You're making me your accomplice?”

“My cousin. My best friend. My future bodyguard. Who else is more qualified?”

He sighed, but nodded. “I suppose you'll need me for your quick exits and palace escapes.”

“More than that.” I leaned forward and groaned at the sharp pain in my ribs. “You're the best swordsman I know. Even Master Blanc admitted that you're beyond him.”

James said nothing.

“I mean it. I need you to help me. I can't do it without you.”

There was a long, tense silence while James considered my request and I thought about all the things he must be thinking: I couldn't put myself in danger anymore if he didn't do this; he wouldn't get in trouble if we were ever discovered because there'd be nothing to discover; this was likely the stupidest thing I'd ever tried to talk him into.

And
talking him into it
was all I'd ever try. Nothing more. Ordering him to help me leave the palace that night—that had been a mistake.

James blew out a breath and seized the plate of melon slices I'd put aside for him. “Fine.
If
I truly become your bodyguard. It'll be impossible for me to cover for you otherwise.”

“You were the top scorer in the tournament finals last week.”

“I know, but that doesn't mean I'll get the placement I requested.”

“You will,” I said. I hoped. I'd requested his placement as my bodyguard, too. “You're going to make it.”

“Assuming that's true, we'll need somewhere private to practice.”

“I have an idea about that.” The storage building I'd hidden in last week was plenty big, at least for now. We could just shove aside all the junk on the floor.

“We'll need to find an excuse to disappear in there for hours, in addition to our usual training.”

“I'll figure it out,” I said. It would be easier when I got rid of the other guards, but who knew when that would happen?

“You won't be ready by the firefly delivery.” He glanced at my side. “Especially if you've broken something. But we'll get you closer.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks, James.” I didn't deserve him. Not at all. But I'd never been more grateful for him.