Broken Veil (Harbinger #5)(10)

She sensed Rand leaving the shadow of the wagon as he began to trail her. Through their connection, he knew where she was, just as she knew where he was. She couldn’t hear him, but there was an invisible line between them, a taut bowstring that quivered. He loaded three more balls into the arquebus. She passed the dead body of the driver whom they’d paid to approach the gate. Stooping, she fetched the small bag of coins from his belt and stuffed it into her own pocket. It would not serve him now.

One of the guards was gathering his courage for an attack. Cettie remained in her crouching position, her eyes fixed on the hollow crate he was using as a hiding place. The instant his courage had built enough, she knew it. He rose, swinging an arquebus up, and Rand dispatched him with a single shot. The man slumped onto the crate, the weapon still firm in his grip.

Cettie straightened and then continued to walk toward the main door of the warehouse. A light emanated from beneath the solid wood door. When she reached it, she rested her hand on the knob, trying to sense what lay beyond. The people inside radiated a sickly worry. The sound of the bodies collapsing had been loud enough that they’d probably heard it and were waiting on a report.

She twisted the knob and pushed her way into the room.

It was a messy office, full of ledgers and broken crates. A single lamp sat on an overcrowded desk, and a man cowered behind it. There were two guards next to the doorway, and both turned to see her enter.

“Who in the—” one said before Cettie’s hand chopped his throat, cutting his question short. She struck him twice more, catching him so off guard he couldn’t react, then shoved him into the other guard, who’d been trying to bring up an arquebus. Both were knocked off balance. Cettie increased their sense of dread, their fear of imminent death.

The man at the desk pushed his chair back as far as he could, the legs screeching on the floor. Cettie caught the second guard as he disentangled himself from the first, and she did a series of Bhikhu techniques, flipping him onto his back and knocking the wind out of him. She kicked the weapons away and strode over to the desk. The man there cowered in abject fear, his hands up, his face contorting.

Cettie shoved him up against the wall, attacking him with a blast of mind-numbing panic from the kystrel.

“P-please! Please, don’t!” he wailed.

“When are you expecting the Rage?”

“How did you—?”

She jammed her forearm into his throat. “Answer me.” She smelled the stink of urine and realized he’d wet himself. Reducing the pressure so he could speak, she said, “When are you expecting the sky ship?”

“It sh-should be here any moment. Don’t kill me.”

She had the sudden urge to break his neck, the sensation pressing at her. She knew how to. What would make this any different from when she’d shot at her father, the kishion, back in the Fear Liath’s cave? She had tried to kill him then. The compulsion raged inside her.

It wasn’t hers, but that knowledge didn’t lessen its power. “How many are guarding the warehouse?”

“Th-thirty men. Four dragoons.”

“That many?” Rand said, closing the door behind him. She hadn’t heard him enter, although she’d felt it. “I’ll go after the rest.”

The quivering man’s eyes bulged. “P-please. I have a wife . . . children!”

Cettie twisted a ring on her finger, exposing a poisoned needle, and quickly jammed it into the man’s neck.

When she pulled the needle away, he groaned, touching the wetness at his neck. The poison worked quickly, though, and he slid against the wall and lay at her feet. A surge of confidence filled her heart. She felt powerful and cunning. They’d already defeated great odds.

Rand walked over to the two prostrate guards, both of whom were still alive, and cracked their skills with the butt of his weapon. It sickened her; it thrilled her.

“I’ll go to the rooftop. See if you can find the manifest for the Rage. What cargo is it expecting, I wonder?”

Cettie nodded and quickly began to scan the desk as Rand exited through a rear door. She looked through the strewn papers, trying to find some sense of order. This unkempt desk was a sharp contrast to Lord Fitzroy’s, always kept so tidy. She could almost see the meticulous notes he’d kept while testing the invention that would become the first storm glass. The memory, so intense it might have happened yesterday, made her stop short. A slow ache began to build, but a surge of anger slammed against it, quelling it instantly. Thinking of the past only made things painful. The mission should be her sole focus now.

After spending several minutes searching, she discovered the manifest. It was written in the curving, fancy script of the Genevese. She’d developed a passing knowledge of the language on her own, in case she should ever find herself without her kystrel, but the kystrel allowed her to decipher and speak all languages. Her finger traced along the document. The manifest contained information about jackets and boots of various sizes. Provisions for the military. Tens of thousands of men, young and old, had been conscripted for the war effort, in both worlds. There were enough uniforms in the order to outfit a new regiment. According to the manifest, the uniforms were intended for Comoros’s allies in Brythonica.

The uniforms would never reach their destination, but whichever side used them, they’d soon be bloodied. They’d be shot through with holes. She could almost hear the groans from the battles yet unfought, smell the acrid stench of black ash.